At the funeral, people kept saying the same things.
“He adored you.”
Three days after the funeral, his boss called.
“He loved those kids.”
“You had a good man.”
My sister, Grace, stayed by my side through all of it. She handled food, answered calls, got the kids dressed, and kept pressing tissues into my hand. Our daughter Ava is seven. Our son Ben is five. They clung to me like they were afraid I might vanish too.
Afterward, I moved through the house like a ghost. I slept on Liam’s side of the bed. I wore his old gray sweatshirt. I played his voicemail just to hear him say, “Hey, honey. I’m on my way home.”
Three days after the funeral, his boss called.
On the front, in Liam’s handwriting, were three words.
His name is Mark. His voice was low and strained.
