I raised my 7 grandchildren alone after their parents’ funeral — 10 years later, my youngest granddaughter handed me a box and whispered, “Grandma, Mom and Dad didn’t die that night.”

“I think I’m hurt, too.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

She rested her head against my shoulder.

After a while, she asked whether we could put the photograph away.

I told her we could.

We slipped it into a drawer together, and then she helped me make dinner.

That night, all seven grandchildren came over. They filled the kitchen with noise, argued over who had taken the last dinner roll, and stayed long after the dishes were washed.

I watched them sitting around the table and thought about the ten years we’d spent together.

I had lost my son in one way that terrible night, and discovering he was alive hadn’t brought back the man I remembered.

But when Romy reached across the table and squeezed my hand, I knew I wasn’t going to let his choices take away the family we’d worked so hard to keep together.