Six Months After My Son Died, My Younger Boy Came Home From Kindergarten and Said, “Mom… Ethan Came to See Me Today.”

“What did he look like?”

“Like Ethan,” Noah replied simply. “But… brighter.”

A chill ran down my spine.

“What did he say to you?”

Noah hesitated for a long moment.

Then he whispered:

“He said you cry too much at night.”

My breath caught in my chest.

Because Noah slept in the room down the hall.

He never heard me crying.

At least… I thought he didn’t.

“What else did Ethan say?” I asked.

Noah’s voice became even softer.

“He said it wasn’t your fault.”

I felt the room tilt slightly.

Because there was something I had never told Noah.

Something I had barely even admitted to myself.

The day of the accident, Ethan had begged me to let him skip soccer practice.

He said he was tired.

But I insisted he go.

“Sweetheart,” I told Noah carefully, “why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Noah shrugged.

“Ethan said you weren’t ready.”

Tears rolled down my face before I even realized I was crying again.

“Did he say anything else?”

Noah nodded.

“He said to tell Dad it wasn’t his fault either.”