So I listened.
I signed the papers through tears.
I buried a child I thought was my son.
And for fifteen years, I carried that grief everywhere I went.
Starting Over
After Howard’s death, I couldn’t stay in the city anymore.
Every street reminded me of him. Every playground felt haunted. Every little boy with dark hair made my chest ache.
So I moved to a small town where nobody knew my story.
I found work at a quiet café on the corner of Main Street. My days became simple. I made coffee, cleaned tables, greeted regular customers, and learned how to survive one day at a time.
I never called it healing.
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