The next weekend, we went to Helen’s house as a family. No secrets. No whispers. We stood together by the flowers and explained to Sophie, in gentle words, that her brother had been very small, that he had died, and that it was okay to talk about him.
Sophie thought quietly, then asked, “Will the flowers grow again?”
“Yes,” Helen said. “Every spring.”
Sophie nodded. “Then I’ll give one to him.”
She still sets toys aside sometimes. When I ask why, she smiles and says, “Just in case he needs them.”
And I let her.
Grief doesn’t need silence.
It needs room to exist.
