Everyone warned me not to adopt Luke. He was sixteen and had already been through ten placements. But two weeks after the adoption became final, he sat across from me at dinner, started shaking, and said, “Mom, I need to tell you why.”
Three years ago, I buried both of my children after a car accident.
For months afterward, I kept their bedroom doors closed.
Then I started leaving them open because closed doors somehow felt worse.
It changed from something that crushed me every morning into something I learned to carry without anyone noticing.
My daughter, Grace, had left a sweatshirt hanging over her desk chair. My son, Noah, had three library books stacked beside his bed. I could not move any of it.
People kept telling me my grief would change, maybe go away.
They were right, technically.
It changed from something that crushed me every morning into something I learned to carry without anyone noticing.
