My oldest son died six months before Noah told me he’d come back.
It was a Tuesday at kindergarten pickup. Parents stood by the gate with coffee cups and phone screens. I stood apart, keys clenched, watching the door like it might swallow my child.
I held him by the shoulders.
Noah ran out grinning.
“Mom!” he yelled, slamming into my legs. “Ethan came to see me!”
The air left my chest. I made my face behave.
“Oh, honey,” I said, smoothing his hair. “You missed him today?”
“No.” Noah frowned. “He was here. At school.”
I held him by the shoulders. “What did he say?”
I never identified the body.
Noah’s grin returned. “He said you should stop crying.”
My throat tightened so fast it hurt. I nodded like it was normal and buckled him into the car.
On the drive home, he hummed and kicked his heels. I stared at the road and saw another one. Two lanes, a yellow line, a truck drifting.
Ethan had been eight. Mark had been driving him to soccer practice. A truck crossed into them.
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