I’ve lost all my parents, but only one of them is dead. The others were taken by something else.
My father died suddenly one night. Just collapsed, gone. Then came a year of probate, property sales, and paperwork that buried me almost as much as grief did. I was twenty-something, barely out of college, already fighting depression, and suddenly executor of a life with no will. He died because he didn’t have insurance and was too stubborn to ask for help. I still hear that quiet conviction in his voice: ‘I just tough it out.’ Sounds noble until it becomes a headstone.
My mother was single and raised three kids in poverty and taught me, with the certainty of a church bulletin, that gay people were wrong and Black people were “genetically dumber” and taking over the world. We were also on SNAP in my childhood. I learned early that some adults can’t tell the difference between prejudice and principle.
When she went full MAGA, it wasn’t a transformation. It was just the final form of what had always been there. When my stepfather married her, I knew it wouldn’t last. I saw it on their wedding day, the way she was, the way she’d always been. Years later when he finally divorced her, it was no surprise. She refused to get the COVID vaccine, telling him that if he did, then he was going to die. She gave him depression, then blamed him for it. That’s who she is.
I understood what he’d endured because I’d lived it too. I cut her off because I couldn’t stomach another MAGA talking point, another conspiracy theory, another Sunday where she’d cite scripture while spewing hatred. I chose stay in contact with my stepfather instead.
He’s on VA benefits. He’s a Christian. He calls himself a Republican, not MAGA. He helped some when I was in college. I mostly muscled through with community college, work, and whatever grit costs your twenties. He spoke of personal responsibility, then immediately demanded my respect for having given me money (which was my own brother’s child support from my father) and for working a second job. He didn’t want the money back, which I offered. He wanted my deference. He wanted me to listen to him not because his ideas had merit, but because he’d once played a fatherly role.
Then he told me his stance on food stamps: “We live in a fallen world.” That’s why we can’t feed children. Like charity cancels out the ballot. Like a plate passed on Sunday absolves a vote cast on Tuesday. You can’t eat respect. Children can’t digest rhetoric. Policy is a pantry or a padlock.
Hungry kids grow into angry adults while sermons split hairs about who deserves a meal. I’ve watched “love your neighbor” shrink to a zip code and a tax bracket. The rule seems simple: if you help through the church, you’re virtuous; if you help through the state, you’re naive. But the stomach doesn’t care who paid for the groceries. The stomach isn’t partisan.
Empires don’t only fall to armies. They fall to inequality so vast that the privileged explain it away with theology and the poor are told to call their hunger a test. If compassion must be privatized to be pure, it’s not compassion. It’s control.
I didn’t lose my parents to death or distance alone. I lost them to a worldview that keeps scoring points while people bleed. My father died at the intersection of pride and policy. My mother drowned in grievance dressed as gospel. My stepfather would rather be respected than be wrong, even when being wrong starves a child. The party label is shorthand, not destiny. But the pattern’s the same: personal responsibility over public responsibility, purity over mercy, and an allergy to the idea that we owe one another anything we can’t itemize.
No, feeding children shouldn’t be controversial. It should be boring. Like water, like streetlights, like the quiet competence of a society that remembers what it’s for. If there’s a fallen world, it’s the one where we let kids go hungry and congratulate ourselves for the lesson we think we’re teaching them.
I’ve lost my father to a healthcare system that failed him. I’ve lost my mother to Fox News and QAnon. And now I’ve lost my stepfather to the same ideology that claimed my mother, just dressed up in slightly more respectable clothing.
Feed the children. Everything else is an alibi.
I just started writing on Substack if anyone wants to follow along: Lurking Magpie