The kind of kid who made you believe in the future.
The kind of son you don’t expect to lose.
But what I remember most in those early days wasn’t my pain.
It was my husband, Sam’s, silence.
He didn’t cry at the funeral.
He didn’t scream. He didn’t rage. He didn’t break.
He simply stood there—stoic, distant, like a stranger to the grief that was swallowing me whole.
And I didn’t understand it. Not then.
A Marriage That Couldn’t Survive the Silence
In the months after our son’s death, Sam and I barely spoke. We were like two ghosts passing in the hallway—sharing a house, but no longer sharing a life.
Grief, I’d heard, can bring couples closer.
Where I ached to talk about our son, Sam recoiled. Where I wept, he closed off. And eventually, we divorced—not in anger, but in the quiet collapse of a marriage held together only by memory.
Sam moved away. Eventually, he remarried. Started over.
And though the hurt lingered, I tried to rebuild my own life in the years that followed.
A Visit After Death
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