When my only son died, I thought I’d buried every chance at family. Five years later, a new boy entered my classroom with a familiar birthmark and a smile that shattered everything I thought I’d healed. I wasn’t ready for what came next, or the hope it brought with it.
Hope is dangerous when it shows up wearing your dead child’s identical birthmark.
Five years ago, I buried my son. Some mornings, the ache still feels as sharp as that first phone call.
Most people see me as Ms. Rose, the reliable kindergarten teacher with extra tissues and band-aids. But behind every routine, I carry a world that’s missing one person.
I used to think loss would heal.
