Grant held onto me, saying “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” over and over.
I was too weak and too medicated to ask questions, so he handled everything.
Every form. Every phone call. Every conversation in the hallway.
There was no viewing. He said it would be “too hard” on me. He said he’d taken care of it.
I just wanted to go home and survive walking past that empty crib.
For two weeks I barely left my bedroom.
Eli went quiet too.
He stopped talking.
He’d stand in my doorway, look at me, and walk away.
My mother said he was sitting on the stairs at two in the morning.
I thought he was grieving in his own way.
Then I noticed the jar on his dresser, slowly filling up with money.
One afternoon I caught him slipping his lunch money inside.
“What are you saving for, sweetheart?”
