When the crying finally stopped — not because the grief had, but because the body can only weep for so long before it simply runs dry — I stood up, and I pulled a suitcase from the closet, and I began to pack.

I packed my clothes.

My identification, my medical records, the practical documents a woman needs when her life has just been detonated.

I packed the framed photograph from Leo’s fourth birthday, the one where he is mid-laugh, blowing at candles he was too excited to actually blow out.

And then, very carefully, I lifted the small green velvet dinosaur from his pillow, and I placed it in the center of my suitcase, and I packed my softest sweaters around it on every side, so that nothing would press against it, so that it would be safe.

I was not leaving that behind.