Mark was taking him to soccer practice when a truck crossed the yellow center line.
Mark survived.
Ethan didn’t.
They didn’t let me identify the body.
They said I was “too fragile” for him.
That evening I told Mark what Noah had said.
“Kids say things like that,” he muttered.
“Maybe that’s how he copes with the situation.”
But something in my chest wouldn’t calm down.
That weekend I took Noah to the cemetery among the white daisies.
He stood stiffly in front of Ethan’s gravestone.
“Mom… she’s not there,” he whispered.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
“He said he wasn’t in.”
A cold ran through me.
I waved it away, like a child’s sadness.
But on Monday, Noah said it again.
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