I followed a little boy in Walmart today. He didn’t look like my son and yet I trailed him and his mother all over the store. I curled my fingers around the shopping cart so I wouldn’t be tempted to reach out and touch him.
My daughter turned cartwheels on her brother’s grave. It wasn’t something I expected.
After my 15-year-old son died in an accident — he was here one morning, gone the next — I spent a lot of time researching grief. I was afraid the tragedy would scar my 10-year-old daughter and 13-year-old son.