Two Weeks After Our Baby Died, My 8-Year-Old Whispered, “Mom, She Isn’t Gone—I Saw What Daddy Did at the Hospital”

“What?”

“Do you look at them?”

His face folded.

“Yes.”

Every night.

While I lay in our bedroom imagining a baby I had never seen, Lucas went downstairs and looked at photographs.

Not because he hated me.

Because he was grieving too.