My family went on vacation to Cancún while I was burying my twelve-year-old son… and when they came back, they no longer had a home. No warning. No return.

I buried my son on a Thursday morning.

Samantha was there.

So was his teacher, who drove over an hour with a letter from his classmates.

Lucas’s casket was placed beside Ethan’s.

While the pastor spoke about heaven, I thought about Cancún.

My mother applying sunscreen.

My father ordering seafood.

My sister smiling with her hand over her stomach while my child was lowered into the ground.

After the funeral, I didn’t go home.

I went to the apartment Ethan had given them.

I opened the door with my key.

And I packed everything.

Clothes. Shoes. Dishes. Decorations.

I didn’t yell.