Twelve years passed.
Then one morning, the phone rang.
Sam was gone. Sudden. No warning. No chance to mend the fractures left behind.
She sat at my kitchen table, hands trembling around a cup of untouched tea.
For a long moment, silence.
Then, in a voice barely holding together, she said:
“There’s something you deserve to know.”
My chest tightened.
I braced myself.
She told me Sam did cry—just not where anyone could see.
The night our son died, he drove to the lake they loved.
The place of fishing, skipping stones, talking about school.
Their place.Continue reading…
