My son died when he was just six. My husband never shed a single tear. “Stop clinging to a dead child,” he said coldly. Still, I visited my son’s grave every single day. One afternoon, in the quiet cemetery, I heard a small voice behind me. “Mom…” I turned around, trembling. Standing there was… my son, who was supposed to be dead.

I didn’t answer.

Because grief blinds you. Love makes you trust when you shouldn’t.

Noah is older now. Still quiet. Still flinches at loud voices. Still sleeps with the light on.

Sometimes he asks why Daddy didn’t love him.

I don’t know how to answer that.

We still visit the cemetery sometimes.

There’s an empty grave there now, a stone bearing Noah’s name.

He stands beside me, holding my hand, staring at it silently.

“I waited a long time,” he says once.

I kiss his hair, my voice steady.

“I’m here now,” I tell him. “I’ll always come.”

And this time, I mean it.