Or maybe I didn’t scream at all.
Maybe the sound only happened inside me.
All I know is that a few days later, I left the hospital carrying only one child in my arms.
A Grief That Never Left
People told me time would help.
They said I was still young. They said I should focus on Susan. They said grief came in waves, and one day the waves would become smaller.
They meant well.
But none of them understood what it felt like to set two places in your heart and return home with one of them forever empty.
For months, I moved like a shadow through my own house.
Susan needed me, so I kept going. I changed her diapers. I rocked her to sleep. I kissed her tiny forehead and told myself she deserved a mother who was present, not a ghost.
Daniel tried his best too.
He grieved quietly. Sometimes I found him in the nursery at night, sitting beside Clark’s empty crib. He would run his hand along the little blue blanket and then wipe his eyes before he noticed me watching.
We never spoke much about the funeral.
My mother had arranged most of it because I could barely stand. I remembered flowers. A small white casket. Daniel’s hand shaking in mine.
Then life continued, as life cruelly does.
Susan grew into a bright, curious, kindhearted girl with dark curls and eyes the color of warm honey. Every birthday was a blessing, but also a reminder.
There should have been two cakes.
Two backpacks by the door.
Two voices calling, “Mom!”
Ten years passed.
I learned how to smile again.
But healing is not the same as forgetting.
