Nothing prepares you for the moment you realize someone has stolen your grief. After my five-year-old son died, I thought my friend’s constant “move on” advice came from concern. Then I walked into her home.
My breath caught – my son’s face smiled from dozens of frames, some showing moments I kept private. His favorite sweater lay folded on the couch. A shoebox held his tiny footwear like sacred objects. When she said my husband gave her these pieces of our shattered world, the betrayal cut deep. Yes, we’d packed away his things together – but this wasn’t preservation, it was possession. In that heartbeat, I understood her childless longing had curdled into something unhealthy. Snatching up the box of shoes, I walked out, leaving behind both the items and a friendship that had become a hall of painful mirrors.
