They do not mean it goes away.

They mean you grow strong enough to lift it.

No one warns you about that part, the way the weight does not shrink but you are quietly conscripted into becoming someone who can bear it.

You do not get over the loss of a child.

You are not meant to.

You simply build, over years, the strange new muscles required to carry a thing that size through an ordinary day — to buy groceries while carrying it, to laugh at a joke while carrying it, to fall in love with a sixteen-year-old boy’s dry humor while carrying it.

The grief does not leave.