Relatives brought food.
Neighbors filled the kitchen with casseroles.
People spoke softly.
The same familiar routines of a family trying to help after a death.
But everything felt wrong.
Ethan's shoes were still beside the back door.
His favorite mug sat in the cupboard.
A half-finished puzzle lay on the living-room table.
And upstairs, his bedroom door remained closed.
Caleb stood at the bottom of the staircase.
He looked frightened.
David approached.
“You don't have to go up there today.”
Caleb nodded.
Then whispered:
“Can I sit in the kitchen?”
“Of course.”
We sat together.
For a long time, nobody spoke.
Finally, Caleb looked toward me.
“Mrs. Bennett, can I tell you something?”
I nodded.
He swallowed.
“Ethan wasn't always sad.”
I felt tears rise.
“I know.”
“He laughed a lot.”
Caleb smiled faintly.
“Even near the end.”
He began telling stories.
How Ethan made jokes about hospital food.
How he convinced a nurse that Caleb was a famous singer.
