I remember my hands trembling as I answered, his half-finished mug of cocoa still warm on the counter.

“Rose? Is this Owen’s mom?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“This is Officer Bentley. I’m so sorry. There’s been an accident. Your son—”

The words blurred after that. A taxi. A drunk driver. “He didn’t suffer,” the officer said gently.

I don’t remember if I answered.

“He didn’t suffer.”

The days after dissolved into casseroles, soft condolences, and whispered prayers. Neighbors came and went. Mrs. Grant pressed a lasagna into my hands and told me I wasn’t alone.

At the cemetery, Pastor Reed offered to walk with me to the grave.

“I’m fine,” I insisted, though my knees nearly gave out.

I knelt and pressed my hand to the earth. “Owen, I’m still here, baby. Mom’s still here.”

Five years slipped by before I realized it. I stayed in the same house, buried myself in teaching, and smiled at crayon drawings that leaned crooked and bright.