A month after burying my eight-year-old son, I thought I had learned the shape of grief—how it settles into rooms and turns ordinary afternoons unbearably quiet. Then my five-year-old daughter pointed to the pale-yellow house across the street and said, with unsettling certainty, that her brother was smiling at her from the window. In that instant, the fragile balance I’d built shattered. I wondered whether sorrow was playing cruel tricks on a child’s imagination—or whether something impossible was asking to be seen.
Since the accident, our home had felt heavier, as if every corner remembered Lucas. His half-built toys stayed where he left them; his laughter lingered only in echoes. My husband tried to be strong, working longer hours, while I learned how to function around the ache for our daughter’s sake. She asked gentle questions at bedtime and accepted careful answers, until the day she insisted she had seen him—waving, smiling, present. I tried to reassure her, to explain that missing someone can make us see what we want. But her calm confidence unsettled me, especially when her drawings began to include a boy in a window across the street.