Chapter Text
People say grief gets easier.
They mean well.
Most people do.
But there are some losses that do not become smaller.
You simply learn how to carry them.
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Sam had only lived a few months.
Four months.
A handful of seasons.
A lifetime of love.
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The nursery remained untouched for weeks.
Then months.
Neither you nor Michael could bring yourselves to change it.
His crib stayed where it was.
His blanket remained folded.
His tiny clothes hung in the closet.
Waiting.
As if he might need them again.
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Some mornings you woke up forgetting.
Just for a moment.
A single precious second.
Then reality returned.
And your heart broke all over again.
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A mother carries her child long before anyone else sees them.
You had felt Sam's first kicks.
His first movements.
His hiccups.
His tiny heartbeat.
You had imagined his future before he was even born.
His first words.
His first day of school.
His first fishing trip with Michael.
Every dream disappeared in a single morning.
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Nothing healed that.
Not time.
Not explanations.
Not sympathy.
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There were days when you sat alone holding one of his tiny blankets.
Crying until there were no tears left.
Then somehow finding more.
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Michael grieved differently.
At least on the surface.
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He still went to work.
Still completed his duties.
Still got dressed every morning.
People sometimes mistook that for strength.
They were wrong.
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Some nights he sat in Sam's nursery after everyone else was asleep.
Sitting beside an empty crib.
Staring.
Remembering.
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He remembered holding Sam for the first time.
Remembered tiny fingers wrapping around his own.
Remembered every smile.
Every laugh.
Every sleepy afternoon.
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A father's grief is often quieter.
Not smaller.
Just quieter.
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Michael carried it everywhere.
In every room.
Every conversation.
Every milestone Sam would never reach.
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One afternoon you found him holding a photograph.
The hospital picture.
The day Sam was born.
Michael was staring at it so intently that he hadn't noticed you enter.
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You sat beside him.
Neither spoke for a while.
Then he quietly asked:
"Do you ever wonder who he would've become?"
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Your eyes immediately filled with tears.
Because you wondered every day.
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Would he have liked books?
Fishing?
Chess?
Would he have inherited Michael's height?
Your father's stubbornness?
Your smile?
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Questions with no answers.
The cruelest kind.
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Michael looked down at the photograph.
Then whispered:
"I miss him."
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It wasn't the first time he'd said it.
It wouldn't be the last.
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You rested your head against his shoulder.
"I know."
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Because there was nothing else to say.
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Some grief cannot be fixed.
Some wounds never fully close.
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The loss of a child changes a person.
Changes a marriage.
Changes a family.
Changes everything.
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But despite the pain—
Despite the tears—
Despite the empty nursery and the unbearable silence—
You and Michael remained together.
Holding each other up when the other couldn't stand.
Crying together.
Remembering together.
Loving Sam together.
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Because even death could not take that away.
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Sam's life had been brief.
Far too brief.
But he had been loved every second of it.
By his mother.
By his father.
Completely.
Unconditionally.
Forever.
And though nothing could heal a mother's tears or a father's grief—
Nothing could erase that love either.