I felt like I was holding everything together alone, and I didn’t know how much longer I could do it. So I asked her about the future—about work, about eventually finding her own place. She looked devastated, but she didn’t argue.
Days later, when she said she’d try to figure things out, I made the suggestion that would change everything. I told her Evan could stay with me for a while—that he was already so attached, that it might help bring some stability. The moment I said it, I knew I had crossed a line.
Her face hardened instantly. Within an hour, she packed their things. Before leaving, she left behind a note with just one sentence: “We’re all grieving the same person.”
Now the house is silent again.
Painfully silent. Daniel’s photo sits on the mantel, and I light a candle beside it every evening. I thought I was trying to help, trying to hold onto what little remained of my son.
But in doing so, I lost the rest of his family too. Sometimes, late at night, I swear I still hear the echo of little footsteps in the hallway—and I realize that grief doesn’t just take people away. Sometimes, it takes everything else with it.
