I grew up in Ohio farm country, which is to say I grew up stoic. Farmers know that flood and frost even out with sun and dry weather over time. They know great truths about life and death from being present and personal for births and deaths of animals great and small, and for people too. Happiness gets evened out with some sorrow. 

As a result of understanding about the “evening out” of things, one must not, in Ohio farm country, get too worked up about any one event. 

I don’t want to misrepresent myself as if I was raised on a farm. I was not. I was raised in an apartment, mostly. I was the only child of a mother who was single all but a few years of my life. She worked as a secretary for a doctor, the local college, and later spent the last and best years of her career at a factory that made corrugated cardboard display cases and boxes.

But in that last decade or so of her working life, her desk faced a large plate glass wall that looked out across the front lawn of the factory and across the street to a dairy farm that stretched as far right, and left as you could see. Every day, rain or shine, black and white cows grazed in that field. 

I am counting this to my credit. Not as a farmer, but certainly as someone who was farmer-adjacent. 

Not a stoic, but stoic-adjacent. 

My mom and I didn’t say “I love you.” I have come to understand that not expressing emotion was a practice she learned from her mother.

This pattern largely continued in my marriage, where these sorts of pronouncements were reserved for the most tender moments. We were more proficient in expressing our love to our children.

This changed for me one day, in one specific moment. I became devoted to expressing my love to my children when I was a young teacher at Hughes High School. A simple lesson I designed to help my students better understand a story taught me to better understand my own role as a parent.

The Story of the Widow’s Son

My tenth grade English class was preparing to read “The Story of the Widow’s Son” by Mary Lavin. In the story, a widow adores her only son, but in her work to maintain her successful and thriving farm, she keeps a gruff exterior.  Her constant correction of her son serves to disguise her love. Then this mother watches her precious son die in front of her in a tragic bike accident. As the weeks pass after his death, she becomes bitter, and she blames her son for the accident. 

Here the author surprises the reader by offering a full second version of events, where the characters are unaware of the first ending. In this one, the widow’s son is on his bike again that fateful day, returning home. This time, though, he makes the choice she claimed she wanted him to make to spare his life. Instead of swerving (to protect the life of a precious farm animal) he hits and kills it. As readers, we know this choice spares his own life. However, in this alternative reality, the widow can never forgive him for this accident. 

As the story continues, she harangues her living son daily about killing something of value to the farm. Ultimately he grows to despise her. When he leaves for school, it is understood that he might never return. For the son and the widow, one could argue that this second outcome is just as awful as the first. 

When I read this story with high schoolers, it raises important questions about how we speak to one another, and the hidden consequences of our choices. 

Before we started reading, I had asked my students a question to help them better understand this theme. “What was the last thing you said to the person you love most in this world, and  what was the last thing they said to you?” I gave the class a few minutes to write. I then asked for volunteers to give their answers.

Many students raised their hands and shared their answers. Collectively we all joked about the seemingly mean and ultimately boring things we said to one another as our days unwound. “Don’t forget your backpack!” “Did you put away the dishes?” 

More than one student confessed getting in a big argument where they both said angry things. I was one of many who struggled to remember exactly what we said at all. It was lost in the dull ordinary-ness of daily life.

But one student, Nyketa, was able to recall with precision her last conversation, because she said she had it all the time. “My mom said the same thing she says every morning. ‘I love you Baby. Have a good day.’”

The conversation with my students continued, but I was stunned.

Here was a student in my class – like me, an only child of a single mother – who left home every day with confidence in the love of her mother. Sure, her mother did the motherly things we all expect; she was fed, clothed, and cared for. And like many single children of single parents, they were each other’s frequent companion. But Nyketa arrived at school each day with verbal reassurance from her mother, certain of her spoken and expressed love.

Love that was stated, not implied. 

The power of certainty

I had recently become a father, and my wife and I were in the process of adopting our second child. I was reading “The Story of the Widow’s Son” from a parent’s perspective. Keta was reading it from a child’s perspective. And, as was often the case when I listened closely to my students, I was the one who was learning.

Nyketa was an excellent student. She completed all of her homework with quality. She expertly avoided conflict, and was comfortable being successful in a school where doing well was perceived by some as a sign of weakness. She went on to become the Valedictorian of her class, and to attend Ohio State University with a full-ride scholarship. 

It is unreasonable to attribute all of this to her mother’s words each morning. But it would be just as wrong to say this had nothing to do with her success. For Nyketa, having a parent who clearly expressed this every day, in a world where the rest of us struggled to remember our conversations with our loved ones, provided a strong foundation from which she could flourish.

“My mom said the same thing she says to me every morning. ‘I love you, Baby. Have a good day.’”

Nyketa Gaffney

Nyketa’s life was not always easy, but she was always certain that her mother was her rock.

And when things are not easy, knowing who loves you certainly makes it easier.

In the moment that Nyketa shared her mother’s daily reassurance with the class, I realized that I had the chance to instill that same confidence in my own children. I could be their rock. And I vowed to do it.

I couldn’t predict all of the good things that would happen to Nyketa over time, and the confident parent she would become. She was a freshman then, and this year her own daughter heads off to college. I just knew that I wanted my children and the other important people in my life to be this certain of my love for them all the time. And I did my best from that day forward to remind my family of my unwavering support and love for them.

Every day, each of us has an opportunity to provide this same reminder for our own loved ones. Our children, our parents, our spouse, close friends. They all need to hear this from us. 

Imagine if we all walked out the door each day, confident in the love of the people closest to us? What could stop us from accomplishing everything we set our minds to?