Two years after my son Caleb died, all I had left lived inside a cedar chest—his hoodie, his drawing, his tiny shoes. When grief overwhelmed me, I’d bury my face in the fabric and breathe him in. My husband, Ethan, understood. His mother, Lorraine, did not. She called it “unhealthy” and threw the chest away. She even pawned my grandmother’s bracelet—Caleb’s heirloom.
So I showed the family: nanny cam footage, pawn shop receipts, and Caleb’s voice saying, “Goodnight, Mommy.” Lorraine was cast out.
Love isn’t loud. It stands. And I will always stand for my son. Grief deserves space.
