12/01/2025
Two years had gone by since my 5-year-old son passed away when I heard knocking on my door and a voice saying, "Mom, it's me."
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I still can't explain how my legs got me to the door.
It was a late Thursday night, heavy with silence—one of those nights when the house seemed much too large and empty. I was mindlessly wiping down the counter, letting the actions keep my hands occupied, when it happened.
Three gentle knocks sounded.
A pause.
Then a small, quivering voice I hadn't heard for two impossibly long years:
"Mom… it's me."
Everything in me froze.
My mind refused to understand. The air felt suddenly colder, sliding like ice down my spine. Those words… they were my son's.
My little boy. The one who left at five.
The same one whose casket I had kissed as my entire world shattered.
The one I'd pleaded with God to give back, though I knew that wasn't possible.
Gone. Yet never really gone from my heart.
My whole body trembled as I made my way to the door, step after step, fingers clutching to the furniture for balance.
Another gentle knock.
"Mom? Can you open?"
My throat tightened painfully. Disbelief warred with desperate hope, but I couldn't ignore it. Grief had played tricks on me before—sounds in the hallway, flashes of light hair in crowds, echoes of laughter that weren’t his. But the voice now—it was unmistakable. So real. So much like him.
Hands shaking so much I could hardly manage the lock, I opened the door.
And my legs gave way. ⬇️⬇️⬇️