During his illness, Daniel had grown oddly protective of certain areas of the house. He insisted on reorganizing the attic himself, even when he barely had the strength to lift boxes. At the time, I thought it was pride—his refusal to feel useless.
Now, in the silence, those moments felt different.
Four days after the funeral, Caleb shuffled into the kitchen while I was scrambling eggs.
“Mom, my back hurts.”
“From baseball practice?” I asked.
“Maybe. It started last night.”
I checked him carefully. No bruising, no swelling. I rubbed ointment into his lower back.
“You probably pulled something,” I said. “Try stretching before bed.”
The next morning, he stood pale and frustrated in my doorway.
“Mom, I can’t sleep in my bed. It hurts to lie on the mattress.”
That stopped me.
