“Yeah, buddy. I’m sad.”
“Me too.”
He sat beside me, leaned against my arm, and stayed there for a long time.
The days after that blurred into a slow gray cycle of school drop-offs, half-eaten meals, and bedtime stories I could barely finish without my voice breaking.
I told myself I only had to survive one hour at a time.
I thought, eventually, things might become easier.
But a knock at the door proved the nightmare had only just begun.
The knock came a little after three in the afternoon.
I expected a neighbor, or maybe one of Sarah’s friends coming to check on the children.
Instead, when I opened the door, my mother-in-law was standing on the porch, holding a small wooden box tightly against her chest.
“Can I come in?” she asked, though she was already stepping past me.
I closed the door slowly.
The children were upstairs, their quiet footsteps the only sound in the house.
She walked directly to the kitchen and set the box on the table.
No hug.
No question about how the kids were managing.
“Sarah made me promise,” she said, turning toward me. “If anything ever happened to her, you were supposed to get this.”
I stared at the box.
“Why would she give something like this to you?” I asked. “She was thirty-six years old. She wasn’t sick.”
“I don’t know what’s inside. She just made me swear.”
Something about her voice sounded practiced, like she had repeated that sentence in the car before coming inside.
“You don’t seem upset to be here,” I said quietly.
She tilted her head. “Excuse me?”
