Our son was eleven when his father died.
At fourteen, Ethan had become taller than me, quieter in ways I didn’t always understand, and remarkably good at pretending he was fine.
He rarely cried in front of me anymore.
He attended school, did his homework, helped carry groceries, and answered my questions with the familiar teenage response of “I’m fine, Mom.”
Sometimes I believed him.
Other times, I lay awake wondering how much sadness a child could hide before it became too heavy to carry.
I tried to give him space without making him feel forgotten. I tried to be both parents without constantly reminding him that one of them was missing.
But there were moments when I caught him staring at his father’s old photographs, and I knew that no amount of love could fill every empty space.
Then there was Lily.
Lily had been Ethan’s best friend since elementary school.
