Hope is dangerous when it comes with the same birthmark as your deceased child.
Five years ago, I buried my son. Some mornings, the pain is still as raw as it was during that first phone call.
Most people see me as Mrs. Rose, the reliable kindergarten teacher who always has tissues and bandages on hand. But behind every routine, I carry within me a world where someone is missing.
Five years ago, I buried my son.
I thought time would heal my wounds.
My world collapsed the night I lost Owen. The hardest part isn't the funeral or the empty house, but the fact that life goes on, even when yours has stopped.
***
He was 19 the night the phone rang. I remember my hands shaking when I answered, Owen's half-empty mug of hot chocolate still warm on the counter.
"Rose? Are you Owen's mother?"
"Yes. Who are you?" I asked.
He was 19 years old the night the phone rang.
I held the phone to my ear, the world shrinking to a single sound.
"A taxi. A drunk driver. He didn't... he didn't suffer," the officer tried to explain to me.
I don't remember answering anything.
***
The following week passed between simmering meals and whispered prayers.
Friends and strangers came and went, their voices blending into a low hum.
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