Mine had none.

It was only weather and bad luck and a slick road, nobody to blame, nothing to rage against, and so the grief simply pooled inside me with nowhere to go, rising year after year, until the house and I were both full to the rafters with it and something had to give.

For months afterward, I could not bring myself to open their bedroom doors.

I would walk down the hall each morning and feel, passing those two closed doors, as though time itself had stopped behind them, as though if I simply never opened them the children might somehow still be inside, doing whatever children do behind closed doors on an ordinary morning.