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 wish I’d understood back then how much he was keeping to himself.

Over the years, we slowly found our way.

There were difficult months when I didn’t know how I’d pay the bills, but there were good days, too.

I watched the children graduate, make friends, learn to drive, and grow into people their parents would barely have recognized.

Now, ten years later, the oldest grandchildren had started lives of their own, while the younger ones were still living with me.

Romy had turned fourteen.

She was a quiet, thoughtful girl who loved reading and often asked questions about things everyone else had forgotten.

Lately, most of those questions concerned her parents.

“Grandma, why were they driving on that road?”

“Did Dad usually take that highway?”

“Are you sure they were both in the car?”

I answered as honestly as I could.

The truth was, I’d never known very much.