Six months after my oldest son died, Noah got in the car after daycare and smiled.
“Mom, Ethan came to visit.”
Ethan has been missing for six months.
My expression remained calm.
“You mean you thought about him?”
“No,” Noah said seriously.
“He was at school.”
“He told me to stop crying.”
The words hit me like a bruise.
Ethan was eight years old when the accident happened.
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