By then, the waiting room had become a place of small movements.
Laura's mother adjusted her coat.
The funeral director checked his phone, then put it away.
Ethan moved his feet back and forth beneath his chair.
I watched the door.
I had watched it for so long that I could almost imagine the sound it would make before it opened.
That was how fear worked.
It made you study every detail for signs of what might happen next.
I was tired of living that way.
But I didn't know how to stop.
I leaned forward and rested my elbows on my knees.
For the first time in hours, I tried to think about what I would need to do when the assessment was finished.
If the medical team confirmed the original understanding of Laura's death, I would need to help Ethan process what he had experienced.
I would need to explain that his memory and feelings mattered, even if they did not establish what had happened medically.
If the findings changed our understanding, I would need to listen carefully and follow the professionals' guidance.
I would need to help our family understand the information without rushing toward conclusions.
Either way, Ethan would need his father.
That was the one responsibility I could understand clearly.
I turned toward him.
“Buddy, can I ask you something?”
He looked up.
“Sure.”
“Are you worried about what they'll tell us?”
He nodded.
“Yeah.”
“Me too.”
He seemed surprised that I had admitted it.
I continued.
“But whatever they tell us, we'll listen together.”
He looked toward the door.
“Okay.”
I placed my hand over his.
I couldn't promise that the news would be good.
I couldn't promise that we would understand everything immediately.
But I could promise that he wouldn't have to sit alone with the answer.
That was something I could control.
Laura's mother moved closer.
“Michael, do you need anything?”
I shook my head.
“I'm all right.”
She gave me a tired look.
“You don't have to keep saying that.”
I almost smiled.
She was right.
“I know.”
She took my hand briefly.
“We're all trying to get through this.”
I nodded.
There was no strength in pretending otherwise.
We were frightened people waiting for information about someone we loved.
We were not expected to know what to do with every possibility.
The funeral director approached us a little later.
He asked whether we had spoken with the medical team recently.
I told him about the last update.
“They're still verifying the finding,” I said.
He nodded.
“Then we should let them finish.”
“Yes.”
He looked toward Ethan.
“Would you like me to find somewhere quieter for him to rest?”
I glanced at my son.
Ethan shook his head before I could answer.
“I want to stay with Dad.”
The funeral director accepted that.
“Of course.”
He stepped away.
I put my arm around Ethan's shoulders.
“You can tell me if you get tired.”
“I will.”
He leaned against me.
The room became quiet again.
I found myself thinking about the call to 911.
I remembered holding the phone and trying to explain why I was asking for help.
I had been afraid that the dispatcher would think I was confused.
I had been afraid that I was making a terrible mistake.
I had been afraid that everyone would judge me for questioning something that had already been officially confirmed.
I had called anyway.
That decision had not given me an answer.
It had given us the chance to seek one.
There was a difference.
I looked at the door.
I no longer needed to convince myself that I had done everything perfectly.
I hadn't.
I had dismissed Ethan's concern at first.
I had tried to explain away the warmth of Laura's hand because I wanted to believe there was nothing else to consider.
But when the doubt became too important to ignore, I had asked for help.
Now I had to let the process continue.
Ethan shifted beside me.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“If I hear something strange again, should I tell you?”
I turned toward him.
“Always.”
“Even if I don't know what it means?”
“Especially then.”
He nodded.
I could see that answer mattered to him.
I wanted him to carry it into the years ahead.
I wanted him to know that being unsure was not a reason to stay silent.
I also wanted him to understand that telling someone what he experienced and knowing exactly what it meant were two different things.
He could tell us what he heard.
The professionals could assess what they found.
We could listen to both without pretending that either one answered every question by itself.
That was the best I could offer him.
A door opened farther down the hallway.
I looked up, but the footsteps moved away.
I let out a slow breath.
Laura's mother reached for her tissue again.
The funeral director stood near the wall.
Ethan rested his head against my shoulder.
For a few minutes, I allowed myself to sit without studying every sound.
I could hear the faint hum of the building.
I could hear Ethan breathing.
I could feel his fingers resting against mine.
Those things were real.
They were enough to keep me present while we waited for the rest.
I didn't know what the medical team would confirm.
I didn't know whether the warmth I remembered would prove relevant.
I didn't know what had happened during the farewell that had made Ethan so certain he heard his mother's voice.
I would not invent answers to those questions simply to make the silence easier.
The truth belonged to the people who were conducting the assessment, and we needed to give them time to establish it.
I looked at my son.
He was still awake.
“I'm here,” I whispered.
He squeezed my hand.
“I know, Dad.”
We sat together as the examination continued.
For once, I didn't try to prepare a speech for the moment the door opened.
I was ready to listen.
Click here to continue reading: PART 17: The Questions We Had Been Afraid to Ask About Laura’s Final Hours
My Son Asked Me to Question the One Thing I Thought I Had Already Accepted
Part 16 of 24
