The other day I could feel the tension between my husband and me. We’re flat, under-slept, and a new baby will do that. I was frustrated that he couldn’t enjoy the rare sunny day, and we drifted to separate corners—him to the couch, me to the bedroom to get some space.
A few minutes later I walked back into the lounge room.
“Can you sit with me for a minute?” he asked. I sat.
“It’s the kids. I miss them.”
My heart dropped. He wasn’t annoyed at me, or the day, or the finances. He was grieving. “They’re just…gone. It’s not fair. I’m angry and I don’t know where to put it. No one listens.”
In that moment, I saw how deeply he was hurting. I knew I was hurting too. I feel it every day—the silence in our home where their laughter and squeals used to be. We’ve welcomed a new little one, and we’re grateful for him, but grief can hold two truths at once: love for who is here and longing for who isn’t. It’s sneaky; you think you’re okay, and then suddenly it hits again.
With foster care, there often isn’t closure. Sometimes there’s no contact. The routines end, the shoes by the door vanish, and the people who loved them most are expected to just “carry on.” I think it can be especially hard for dads. Men’s grief can be quieter, less visible, easier for others to miss. My husband carries a lot, and it’s not always honoured. I’m guilty of forgetting he’s grieving too.
And yet—he keeps showing up. We welcomed a child we had no history with, and he stepped straight into love. He doesn’t expect me to carry the weight of parenthood alone. In the midst of great loss, he chooses to love again.
So today I want to honour the incredible father in our house. He cares for children who aren’t biologically his. He works hard to provide while being an engaged dad. He often goes unnoticed by the wider world—but I notice him. I’m grateful for him. And to the other dads carrying invisible loads: your love matters. Your grief matters. You matter.
If you’re a carer walking through this—especially the fathers—please know you’re not alone. Your tenderness is strength. Your grief is love with nowhere to go. And your willingness to love again after loss? That’s courage.
