How he insisted on watching terrible science-fiction movies because he liked complaining about them.
For the first time since my son's death, I laughed.
Not because the pain had disappeared.
Because Caleb was reminding me there had been happiness inside those fourteen months too.
Two weeks later, I found David sitting in Ethan's room.
He was holding one of our son's old baseball gloves.
I stood in the doorway.
“David?”
He looked up.
His eyes were red.
“I keep thinking about Caleb.”
I sat beside him.
“So do I.”
David swallowed.
“I almost threw that boy out of our son's funeral.”
I took his hand.
“You didn't know.”
He shook his head.
“But I should've asked.”
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he whispered:
“I was so angry.”
“I know.”
“At everything.”
I nodded.
“The doctors. The illness. The fact that we couldn't save him.”
He stared at the glove.
