What My Daughter Saw After Her Brother’s Death Gave Us Unexpected Peace
A month after burying my eight-year-old son, I thought I had learned the shape of grief—how it settles into rooms and turns ordinary afternoons unbearably quiet. Then my five-year-old daughter pointed to the pale-yellow house across the street and said, with unsettling certainty, that her brother was smiling at her from the window. In that…
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