“You ruined Christmas.”
Daniel’s mouth tightened with pain.
“Yes.”
“And birthdays.”
“Yes.”
“And family tree day at school.”
Daniel looked confused. “Family tree day?”
“I had to draw Mama four times because she was everyone!”
Daniel crouched beside the car, eyes wet.
“I’m sorry.”
Noah glared. “Stop saying that.”
“What should I say?”
“Nothing!”
So Daniel said nothing.
For forty more minutes.
Noah did not get out of the car that day.
But on the way home, he said, “He didn’t leave.”
“No,” I said. “He didn’t.”
The next month, Noah got out.
Healing was not a sunrise.
It was weather.
Some days clear.
Some days violent.
Some days both before noon.
As for me, I learned the strange discipline of not confusing my children’s healing with my own.
Their ability to know Daniel did not require me to soften history.
Their curiosity did not erase my pain.
