Noah had icing on his chin.
Caleb had fallen asleep against Marianne’s side, his dinosaur tucked beneath his arm.
Liam was explaining to Daniel’s uncle how tornadoes formed, with the confidence of a scientist and the volume of a preacher.
Jonah sat quietly at the end of the table, watching everyone.
He was the one I worried about most.
The other boys processed pain through questions, food, stories, motion.
Jonah processed it by becoming still.
I sat beside him.
“You okay?”
He shrugged.
“Did I say the wrong thing?” he asked.
My chest tightened.
“No, baby. You told the truth.”
“Did it hurt him?”
I glanced toward the empty hall where Daniel had stood.
“I don’t know.”
Jonah looked down at his untouched cookie.
“I wanted it to.”
There it was.
The sentence most adults would rush to soften.
But I had promised myself never to lie to my children just to make their feelings easier for me to hear.
