Emily Jennings lives in North Yarmouth.

Seventy-four days.

As I write this, it has been 74 days since I lost the love of my life, my best friend, my soulmate and the father of my children. My husband, Ryan Jennings, died on April 1 while rescuing our children from a rip current during a family vacation in Florida.

The morning after he died, I remember trying to walk downstairs to make breakfast for my children. The simple act of standing felt impossible. People talk about grief like it’s only an emotion. It is exhaustion. It is nausea. It is trying to move through the world while carrying a weight you can’t set down. While sitting in that grief, one thought consumed me:

How was I supposed to do this alone?

Ryan filled every space where I fell short. He coached every sport. He wrestled with our son. He raced our daughters in the yard. He carried tired children home from walks. He was the parent who could throw kids over his shoulder, build the fort, organize the game and somehow have fuel left. He was everything I wasn’t.

How could I possibly be both the mother and father now?

The answer, I have learned, is that I don’t have to be. Because good people step in.

They have stepped in through meals dropped at our door, with handwritten letters, text messages, prayers, fundraisers, hugs, rides, conversations and acts of kindness that pile up. They have stepped in through teachers who met my grieving children with patience and tenderness. Through friends who became family. Through strangers who saw a hurting family and decided to help in any way they could.

These last 74 days have taught me that helpers are everywhere. When tragedy strikes, we often hear about what is broken. What doesn’t get enough attention is the quiet army of people who show up and start putting the pieces back together.

One local business, Royal River Heat Pumps, installed heat pumps in our home at no cost because they didn’t want my son burdened with lifting and installing heavy window units every year. Sometimes kindness arrives in practical forms. Sometimes it’s taking one burden off a child who’s already carrying too much. 

Maine Laser and Aesthetics helped organize fundraising efforts for my family and welcomed me as a nurse practitioner student when my world had been turned upside down. My parents came out of retirement and, in so many ways, have become co-parents alongside me. My in-laws crisscross states to surround my children with steadfast love and support.

Friends have sat in silence when there was nothing more to say. Complete strangers have reached out simply to remind us that we are not alone. And again and again, it isn’t only the tragedy that brings me to tears. It is what came after, the good.

There are many definitions of a father. For me, a father is anyone who helps a child feel safe, loved, supported and valued. Ryan understood that better than anyone. Many people were surprised to learn that Ryan was not the biological father of our oldest son. He stepped into his life without hesitation and loved him as his own from the very beginning. For all intents and purposes, Ryan was his father. In our family, there were never “steps.” There was only love. The only step that mattered was stepping up.

That lesson has become even clearer since his death. The truth is that fatherhood is bigger than biology. It is an action. It is a choice. It is showing up. And over the last 74 days, our community has shown up. Nothing will ever replace our Ryan. My children and I will miss him every minute of every day for the rest of our lives. There is no substitute for the man we lost. But this community has given us something rare: the steady proof that we are not carrying this alone.

Ahead of Father’s Day, I want to say thank you.

Thank you to every parent, grandparent, teacher, coach, neighbor, friend, business owner, mentor and stranger who has stepped forward to help a child feel safe, loved, supported and valued. Thank you to the people who choose to show up when it would be easier not to. Thank you for reminding my children that even in the darkest stretch, goodness still exists. And thank you for showing us that the greatest measure of a father is not who shares a child’s DNA, but who chooses to stand beside them when they need it most.

Happy Father’s Day — to all who step up.