And suddenly I was the only parent they had left.
Noah looked at me.
“Mom?”
I could not speak.
He looked toward the doctor.
Then back at me.
“Dad isn’t coming home?”
I shook my head.
Noah began crying.
Not loudly.
That made it worse.
He pressed his face against my side.
I held him with one arm.
I held Lily with the other.
That was the beginning of the hardest season of my life.
For weeks, people came to the house.
Family.
Friends.
Neighbors.
They brought food.
Flowers.
Cards.
Everyone said the same things.
Call if you need anything.
Take all the time you need.
Be strong for the children.
I hated that last sentence.
I did not feel strong.
I felt hollow.
After the funeral, the visitors became less frequent.
That was normal.
People returned to their lives.
I remained inside mine.
Except my life no longer looked familiar.
Michael’s shoes remained beside the garage door.
His coffee mug stayed in the cabinet.
His jacket hung behind the bedroom door.
I could not move any of it.
Every object felt like evidence that he had once been there.
I stopped going out unless necessary.
Groceries were delivered.
Bills were paid online.
I took Lily to pediatric appointments.
I took Noah to school.
Then I returned home.
I told myself I was surviving.
Maybe I was.
But I was also disappearing.
Summer arrived.
Savannah became unbearably hot.
The air felt thick.
The sidewalks shimmered.
Noah finished school.
I barely noticed.
One afternoon, he came into the living room.
I was sitting on the sofa.
Lily slept against my shoulder.
Noah stood there quietly.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Can I ask something?”
“Of course.”
He looked nervous.
That frightened me.
“It’s so hot this summer.”
