For three years, I had been the person keeping Ryan alive for him.
Pictures.
Videos.
Stories.
Little memories.
But when a child loses a parent that young, something happens.
Their memories begin to fade.
Ethan once remembered Ryan’s laugh.
The way he smelled.
How he tickled him.
Specific moments.
With time, those memories softened.
Eventually, I couldn’t tell whether Ethan remembered things himself or remembered me telling him about them.
During the previous month, he had started asking about Ryan more often.
What food did Dad like?
Was Dad good at soccer?
What did Dad want to be when he grew up?
And several times that week, Ethan had asked about the storage unit where I kept Ryan’s belongings.
“There are boxes of Dad’s things there?”
“Lots.”
“Can we go?”
“We will. I promise.”
I had thought it was heartbreaking but sweet.
Standing in my kitchen with a strange object hidden behind his ear, it no longer felt sweet.
I stopped touching the disc.
“Ethan, I need you to tell me everything about this man.”
His eyes widened.
“But first, I’m calling someone.”
I called the police.
The dispatcher’s calm voice was probably the only thing keeping me functional.
