My kids grieve their dad in different ways — here's how I support them when they both need me

• My husband died four years ago, when our kids were 7 and 6.
• They each grieve their dad differently, but they both need me to support them.

My children's father, my husband, died four years ago. My daughter was just shy of 8 years old. My son was barely 6.

Their grief was alike in rawness and depth — and unalike in every other way. My daughter cried and asked questions. My son turned inward and woke up with stomachaches most nights.

Four years later, their grief is alike in the way it's softened around the edges, but still entirely unalike in its manifestations.

My daughter's grief is vocal, and she's learned to wear it on her sleeve with the kind of emotional maturity I aspire to. My son's grief settled just below the surface, and his need to find a way to control the things no one can control is familiar.

This year, on the anniversary of their father's death, those wildly different manifestations of grief collided.

I'm their support when they grieve

My daughter wanted to talk about her dad and go to the cemetery. She needed to go. My son wanted nothing more than to stay home, to watch movies, to be with me where he feels safest.

They turned to me — their solo parent — to support their grief.

The problem was one that's familiar to any solo parent of two grieving children: Their shared heartache means their worst grief days overlap. I couldn't be at the cemetery sharing stories with her while simultaneously sitting on the couch in silence with him.

Supporting one meant — at least temporarily — not supporting the other. Supporting one meant leaving one of my kids alone in their grief.

Just the thought of that makes my heart ache.

The only way to support them both was to give them a choice: take turns getting the support they needed, or take the opportunity to be a part of what the other needed.

My son drove to the cemetery with us. He didn't get out of the car. He didn't acknowledge that he was listening to the stories I told my daughter about her dad — about his humor, intelligence, and heart. More importantly, though, he didn't interrupt her, and he even shared his snack.

Back at home, my daughter curled up under a blanket right alongside us and made peace with the silence my son needed. She didn't interrupt him.

They both chose to make space for the other's grief while honoring their own needs. That might sound like a small thing. It's not.

I didn't know what grief really was until my husband died

Before my husband died, I thought grief was sadness, and I thought it ended a few weeks after the funeral. I didn't know that grief was sadness and also anger, fear, uncertainty, stomachaches, sleeplessness, longing, overstimulation, and an entire dictionary of words yet to be discovered. I didn't know that it never ended — that it just became a part of your whole.

Because I didn't know any of that, I didn't know to make space for other people's grief. I didn't know how to.

My kids will know because they had to learn. They will know that for some people grief is loud and for others it's quiet. They'll know it's there even after four years, even when the majority of the world has forgotten. They'll know how to make space for someone else's grief because they've had to learn to do it for each other — and for me.

Most importantly, they'll know they're safe to grieve in the way they need, and they'll never be alone in that grief, because they'll have each other.

And when it comes to grief, sometimes knowing you're not alone is enough. At least for a little while.