Four years. It has now been four years since the worst day of our lives.

It’s been a weird year. I can officially say that 4 is the number that people who don’t know any better decide that you should have started to “get over things.” On the surface, I can see why people might think that.

Among other phrases that make me want to vomit, “healing journey” is one of the worst. You don’t heal from this. I’ve come to think of it as the “scarring journey.”

On the surface, things are in one piece. They may look put back together, but if you take a closer look, you’ll see something isn’t quite right. Something is just a little bit off, a little bit different. It sort of looks the same, but it isn’t.

I’ve noted progress before, like when the kids finally started talking about Steve again, referring to him as Dad, instead of a quiet space or “him.” We’ve finally had a return to laughing about some of his antics and managing to keep the mood light instead of dissolving into tears.

One of the biggest surprises was A’s request to go hunting with G over break. The two of them up before daybreak, squabbling over who got to wear the pants that fit well, or who lost whose mittens, was music to my ears.

I also realized that what each of them had taken away from the time they did have hunting with Steve was quite different, and by sharing that, they managed to give each other a piece of their sad that they were both missing.

We had another round of the college application process in front of us, and it was eye-opening in a way I didn’t see coming.

Both boys wrote excellent personal essays. They each managed to capture their own unique qualities and tell their own stories.

Not surprisingly, both of them centered their stories around their father. How could they not? Having him and losing him has been the single biggest influence on the men they’ve become.

However, A’s story was fresh from the trauma. It was gut-wrenchingly honest and made me weep. Copiously. G’s story, however, while I shed a few tears, managed to move on from the initial tragedy. Although the reveal that his beloved Dad was no longer with us hit like a bit of a gut punch in the middle of his tale, he transitioned between the before and after almost seamlessly.

When his adviser lovingly suggested that he make the story just a wee bit more personal, after rolling his eyes a few dozen times he managed to do so eloquently and in a manner that was heartwarming instead of heartbreaking.

I have come to regret a lot of the things I did along the way, mainly because I just didn’t know any better. One of the things that I deeply regret is resisting the initial urge to pack us up and move away from here.

There are very few new people in our lives, and the ones who have remained, through no fault of their own, tend to have the idea that we will go back to the way we were. Someday.

Reconciling the people we are now with the people we used to be is not something longtime acquaintances do well. I noticed this when E moved to a new swim team. Her coach had no idea of her background. She had no preconceptions of what kind of competitor E used to be, or the challenges she faced. She only knew the E standing in front of her.

E has thrived in this environment. She doesn’t have to try to be who she was before. A has noted the same sort of benefit from being in his new environment as well.

Over the next few years, each of them will get their chance at a fresh start. Of course, they will never stop grieving him, at least they won’t walk around being “the kid whose dad died,” or with the expectation that they will someday go back to being who they were before.

As A said, he controls the narrative now. He decides whom he shares his dad with and when and how.

I, however, am stuck in the same place. I will never move on from here. It is unlikely I will surround myself with new people who don’t know the old Liz.

Most of the people who knew her are now either not comfortable with the person I’ve become, still have the expectation that I’ll somehow become “myself” again, or I’ve just no longer been able to tolerate.

As one of the few friends I have left told me recently, my circle is starting to become a dot. In talking to others who have been through this, it seems like a fairly common reaction.

So, that’s where we are four years later. Sometimes moving in the right direction, sometimes stuck, and still wishing like anything that day had never happened.

Liz Pinkey’s column appears on Saturdays in the Times News