Two Weeks After Our Baby Died, My 8-Year-Old Whispered, “Mom, She Isn’t Gone—I Saw What Daddy Did at the Hospital”
“Seems like it belongs here.”
Maybe.
Then he went downstairs looking for snacks.
That is family.
Memory beside appetite.
Death beside life.
No need to choose.
If I could return to the afternoon Toby whispered:
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