I was seventeen and he was eighteen when I first saw him standing inside Sunset Bowl, a bowling alley in San Diego, California. Quiet, shy, and undeniably handsome, I had no idea this young man, Matt, would change my life in ways I could never imagine—especially since he only had seven years left on this earth. He nervously asked for my number, lost it, and then somehow found the courage to ask again. Wearing a maroon hat, he stuttered, “I’m sorry I didn’t call, I lost your number. You’re so pretty, and I thought you wouldn’t give it to me again.” That was all he needed to say. That night, he called. We talked for hours, and by August 2001, we were dating.
We spent our days bowling, getting tattoos, going to college together, and laughing until our sides hurt. Matt became my best friend, my confidant, and my first real love. I felt swept off my feet in a way I never had before. I even brought him to meet my dad in Virginia. My dad, true to form, made him prove he could handle the responsibilities of manhood—mowing the lawn, doing all the “man things.” Matt passed the test, my dad approved, and I did too. Little did we know what life had in store for us that year.
One evening, I came to him with the terrifying news that I thought I was pregnant. We stood together in the bathroom as I took the test—it was positive. Matt’s grin lit up the room. “I hope it’s a boy,” he said. “I can’t wait to play ball with him.” A few weeks later, we watched the ultrasound together, and there it was: “It’s a boy!” In August 2003, our son, Matthew Hicks II, was born. Matt could not have been prouder.
The first year of parenthood was challenging. Matt wanted to provide for our family, but regular jobs weren’t enough. He quietly made the decision to join the Navy without telling me at first. I was hurt, but I understood he needed to do this. In January 2005, he left for boot camp, and I flew to Chicago to watch him graduate—a proud but bittersweet moment. Being young parents, managing a long-distance relationship, and caring for our son was exhausting. From 2005 to 2008, Matt deployed three times. We did everything we could to stay connected—emails, secret calls, sharing every little milestone with him. Matthew and his dad were inseparable. Saturday morning donuts, laying in the grass in the front yard—their bond could melt anyone’s heart.
In 2008, we were learning to communicate better and grow as a family. Just before his third deployment, Matt even tried to get me to go to a courthouse and marry him. I said, “Let’s wait until you get back and do it right,” words I would regret forever. He left in May, and Matthew clung to him during the goodbye. Emails kept us connected, but on June 6th, he called me from his phone. “I love you,” we said. That was the last time I heard his voice.
That Sunday, Matthew and I had gone on a hike and made a video for Daddy. When we returned home, baking cookies, the phone rang. It was Kara, Matt’s sister-in-law: “Jenn… something is wrong with Matt. You need to come now.” My world turned upside down. Over the next days, I learned Matt had suffered a seizure and was being flown to a hospital in Thailand. I arranged my own ticket, leaving our four-year-old with my parents, and flew across the world.
At the airport, Matt’s father met me. He took me straight to the hospital. There he was, my 25-year-old best friend, lying in a bed with tubes, still alive but barely. Doctors delivered the unthinkable: Matt was brain dead. That day, we made the hardest decision a parent or partner could make—we agreed to remove him from life support. I asked them to wait until after Father’s Day so Matthew could have one more day with his dad. We read books to him, played recordings, and held his hand as his heart beat for the last time.
Coming home to Matthew was crushing. He ran to me and asked, “Mommy, did you bring back Daddy?” I held him close and said, “No, son. We will see him soon.” I explained the truth gently, answering every question he had. In the midst of this heartbreak, Matt’s book, I Love You So Much…, arrived in the mail—a final gift that felt like a message from him. We navigated funerals, the viewing, and finally laid him to rest at Fort Rosecrans in San Diego. Grief consumed us, and life felt impossible. Matthew started kindergarten without his dad, and I struggled with every moment, every breath.
It was TAPS, the Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors, that offered a lifeline. There, surrounded by military families who had lost loved ones, I finally felt understood. Over time, Matthew and I healed together. I began to open my heart again and joined MilitaryCupid.com, searching for someone who understood the military lifestyle and the depth of my grief.
In February 2012, Geoff came into our lives. Thoughtful, kind, and patient, he met my son and family and slowly earned our trust. Over months, I shared my story and my heart. Despite my fears, Geoff stayed. On Mother’s Day 2012, he asked me to marry him—I said yes. That June, we wed, and in July, he deployed for six months, keeping Matthew and me close through every call. When he returned, he surprised Matthew with his black belt and became the loving, supportive partner we needed. He embraced our grief, attended TAPS events with us, and became part of our family.
Over the years, Matthew’s grief, while still present, eased with love and guidance. Geoff never tried to replace Matt but became a steadfast partner and father figure. Together, we welcomed three more children: Gavin, Harper, and Aria, each introduced to Matt’s memory with care and love. Visits to his gravesite became family moments, honoring his legacy while building new memories.
Now, in 2021, thirteen years have passed since we lost Matt. Matthew graduated high school, a milestone his father never saw. I never imagined I would find love again or have more children, yet here we are. The grief never fully disappears, but there is hope. There is love, happiness, and the possibility of moving forward without forgetting. My advice: give yourself grace, find your tribe, and never lose hope. One day, someone will accept your past, your child, and the love you’ve lost—and love all of you, entirely.
