My memory of the day my oldest son died is still blurry. It happened six months before the Tuesday I went to pick up Noah, my youngest son, from kindergarten. I always kept a little distance from the other parents, who were usually standing outside the school gates with coffee mugs in their hands, staring at their phones. I watched the glass doors as if they were about to swallow the last vestige of my universe as I clutched my car keys. Noah was grinning from ear to ear as he finally ran out.
He bounced onto my legs and shouted, “Mommy.” Ethan came to visit me today.
In an instant, I felt my breath catch in my throat. I tried not to show any emotion. I stroked his hair and said gently, “Oh, honey. Did you miss him today?”
Noah frowned. “He was at school, right here.”
I took hold of his shoulders and looked into his eyes. “What did he say to you?”
Noah exclaimed excitedly. “You should stop sobbing,” he urged.
I felt a sharp pain in my throat. I walked him to the car, nodding as if his comments were perfectly normal. Noah kicked the seat and sang happily as they drove home. My mind was lost in the past, but I kept my eyes on the road. I recognized the yellow stripe of that deadly highway. As Mark drove Ethan to soccer practice, a truck swerved into their lane. My eight-year-old son didn’t survive, but Mark did, with minor injuries. The doctors at the hospital told me I was too weak, so they never allowed me to identify his body. It left an indelible void, shielding me from the terrible reality.
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