The Grief I Never Saw
My son was sixteen when an accident took him.
And my husband, Sam, never shed a tear.
Not in the hospital when the machines went still.
Not at the funeral as I clung to the coffin.
Not in the hollow house where our boy’s laughter once lived.
I grieved out loud.
Sam grieved by vanishing—into work, into chores, into a silence so heavy it split us apart.
I begged him to speak.
