A doctor came in. Someone gave me something.
When I woke up, it felt like everything inside me had been emptied out.
I asked again.
“Where is he?”
She turned a page in her magazine and said,
“You need to move forward.”
I asked if there would be a funeral.
“There’s nothing for you to do here,” she replied.
That night, when she stepped out, a nurse came back quietly.
She slipped me a piece of paper and whispered,
“If you want to write something… I’ll try to send it with him.”
I had nothing left.
Except one thing.
I wrote a single sentence:
“Tell him he was loved.”
I gave her the note—and a small blanket I had made in secret. Blue wool. Yellow birds stitched into the corners. The only thing that felt like it belonged to both of us.
The next day, it was all gone.
When I asked about the blanket later, my mother said she had burned it. Said it wasn’t healthy for me to hold on.
And then they sent me away to college… before I had even healed.
No grave.
No answers.
No closure.
So I stopped asking.
I learned how to carry grief quietly—without making anyone uncomfortable.
My mother died two years ago.
My father moved in last year after his health began to fail. His memory isn’t perfect anymore… but it’s not gone.
He remembers what he chooses to remember.
Last week, a moving truck pulled into the house next door.
I was outside pulling weeds when I saw him—a young man stepping out, carrying a lamp.
And my heart stopped.
Dark curls.
Sharp features.
My chin.
I told myself I was imagining it. People see what they want to see.
But then he smiled and walked over.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Miles. Looks like we’re neighbors.”
We exchanged a few normal words, but I barely heard any of them.
I went back inside shaking.
My father was in the kitchen.
