Some mornings, the pain still cuts as sharply as it did the night the phone rang.
I buried my son.
To most people, I’m just Ms. Rose—the dependable kindergarten teacher with spare tissues and colorful band-aids.
But beneath the routines and cheerful songs, I carry a world missing one person.
I once believed grief would soften with time.
My life ended the night I lost Owen. The hardest part isn’t the funeral or the silence in the house—it’s the way the world keeps moving as if yours hasn’t shattered.
I used to think loss would heal.
He was nineteen when the call came.
I remember my hands trembling as I answered, his half-finished mug of cocoa still warm on the counter.
“Rose? Is this Owen’s mom?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“This is Officer Bentley. I’m so sorry. There’s been an accident. Your son—”
The words blurred after that. A taxi. A drunk driver. “He didn’t suffer,” the officer said gently.
I don’t remember if I answered.
