Two years after losing my wife and six-year-old son in a car accident, I existed more than I lived. Grief hollowed out the days until they blurred together—work, takeout, sleepless nights on the couch, the TV murmuring to no one. People told me I was strong, but strength had nothing to do with it.
I was just still breathing. Our house felt wrong, like a place that had forgotten its purpose. My wife’s mug sat untouched by the coffee maker.
My son’s sneakers waited by the door. I avoided our bedroom and learned how quiet a life could become when the people who gave it meaning were suddenly gone.
One night, long past midnight, I was scrolling through Facebook when a local news post stopped me cold. It showed four siblings—small, pressed together on a bench—about to be separated by the foster system.
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