Every Sunday, my son Mark and I walked the same path around the lake.
We’d been doing it for two years, ever since his mother died. It didn’t matter if I was exhausted, drowning in paperwork, or barely holding myself together. Sundays were sacred. Just him and me, side by side, walking in silence or talking about nothing important at all.
Mark needed it. I did too.
He’s a gentle kid. Too gentle sometimes. The kind of child who apologizes when someone else bumps into him. Since his mom passed, that softness has deepened. Loud noises make him flinch. He asks questions about death at random moments, then watches my face closely, like he’s checking to see if I’m about to vanish too.
Some days, I still forget she’s gone. I’ll turn to tell her something stupid or ordinary, and there’s just empty air where she should be. Those moments hit like a punch to the chest, but I swallow it down. Mark can’t see that part of me. He needs his dad steady, not unraveling.
So we walk.
That Sunday looked ordinary enough. Pale blue sky, joggers with earbuds, families pushing strollers. We were halfway around the lake when Mark stopped so abruptly I almost walked into him.
“Mark?” I said.
