His small bed was still made, the way it had been made all those weeks he was in the hospital and I could not bear to unmake it.

A red toy fire truck was parked near the baseboard, under the window, exactly where he had left it.

And against his pillow leaned a small stuffed dinosaur, soft green velvet worn thin in places from being held.

That is where I finally let go.

I sank down onto the rug in the middle of my son’s quiet room, and I put my face in my hands, and I grieved — really grieved, for the first time all day, without an audience, without having to hold myself upright for anyone.

I will not describe it.