The day my oldest child passed away remains a permanent blur in my mind. It happened six months before the Tuesday I went to pick up my younger son, Noah, from kindergarten. Parents usually stood by the school gates clutching coffee cups and glancing at their phones, but I always stood slightly apart. My hands gripped my car keys, and I watched the glass doors as though they might swallow the last piece of my world. When Noah finally ran out, he was grinning from ear to ear.
Mom, he yelled as he slammed into my legs. Ethan came to see me today.
The air instantly left my chest. I fought to keep my face completely expressionless. Oh, honey, I said gently, smoothing down his hair. You missed him today?
No, Noah frowned. He was right here at school.
I held him by the shoulders and looked deep into his eyes. What did he tell you?
Noah smiled brightly. He said you should stop crying.
A sharp pain seized my throat. I nodded as if his statement were perfectly normal and led him to the car. During the drive home, Noah hummed happily and kicked his heels against the seat. I kept my eyes fixed on the road, though my mind was stuck in the past. I saw the yellow line of that fatal road. A truck had drifted across the lane when Mark was driving Ethan to soccer practice. Mark survived with minor injuries, but my eight-year-old son did not make it. I was never allowed to identify his body because the hospital staff told me I was too fragile. They shielded me from the harsh reality, leaving a permanent void in my heart.
That evening, the heavy silence of our house felt suffocating. I stood at the kitchen sink with the water running when Mark walked in quietly. Is Noah okay? he asked, avoiding my eyes.
He said Ethan visited him at school today, I replied.
Mark paused. Kids say wild things.
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