Laura's mother remained beside us after the medical professional left.
She had stopped crying, but her face looked worn out.
I knew that look.
It was the expression people wore after they had cried so much that their bodies seemed to have forgotten how.
She glanced toward the examination room.
“Michael, do you think we missed something?”
I didn't answer immediately.
I wanted to say no.
I wanted to reassure her that we had done everything properly, that the doctors had known what they were doing, and that nobody could have anticipated the questions we were facing.
But I couldn't honestly say that we knew enough to make such a claim.
“I don't know,” I told her.
She looked at me.
“I keep thinking about those last few days.”
“So do I.”
“Was there anything different about Laura?”
I thought carefully.
I remembered the ordinary things about our life together.
The sound of her moving around the kitchen.
The way she checked on Ethan before bed.
The familiar rhythm of our evenings.
Nothing in those memories offered me a clear answer to what was happening now.
“She seemed like herself to me,” I said. “I didn't know anything that made me think we would lose her.”
Laura's mother lowered her eyes.
“I wish I had asked more questions.”
I reached over and placed my hand on hers.
“We all wish we had more time.”
She nodded, but the tears returned.
Ethan had been listening.
“Grandma, don't cry.”
She quickly wiped her cheeks.
“I'm all right, sweetheart.”
He moved closer and wrapped his arms around her.
It was a small gesture.
He was still a little boy, but he was trying to comfort the people around him.
I wished he didn't have to.
I wished he could have spent that afternoon worrying about a toy left at home or what he would eat for dinner.
Instead, he was sitting in a waiting room after his mother's funeral, watching adults search for answers they didn't have.
I gently touched his shoulder.
“You've done enough taking care of everybody today, buddy.”
He looked at me.
“But Grandma is sad.”
“She is. And it's okay for her to be sad.”
He seemed to consider that.
Then he returned to his seat.
I was learning that I couldn't protect Ethan from every painful feeling.
I could only make sure he didn't believe those feelings were his responsibility.
A little later, the funeral director approached us.
He asked whether we needed water.
I accepted a cup for Ethan and another for Laura's mother.
The paper cup bent slightly when I handed it to him.
Ethan took a small sip, then held it with both hands.
The ordinary action reminded me of the mornings when Laura would make him a warm drink and remind him not to spill it.
I turned away before my face could give me away.
The funeral director noticed.
“I'm sorry, Michael.”
I nodded.
“I know.”
He sat down across from me.
For a while, he didn't speak.
Then he said, “I've been thinking about the funeral home.”
I looked at him.
“What about it?”
“When you mentioned that her hand felt warm, I gave you the explanation I understood at the time. I wasn't trying to discourage you from asking questions.”
“I know.”
He seemed relieved that I had said it.
“I wanted to help you get through the service.”
“I understand.”
I did.
He had not known that the afternoon would unfold this way.
Neither had I.
The memory of our conversation had become more troubling because of what was happening now, but that didn't mean his explanation had been dishonest.
I had no reason to assume that.
“Thank you for helping us arrange the assessment,” I said.
He nodded.
“I'm glad the appropriate people are looking into it.”
We sat quietly for a moment.
Then he returned to his place near the wall.
I looked at the cup in Ethan's hands.
The paper had begun to soften where his fingers pressed against it.
I took it from him before it spilled.
“Let me hold that for you.”
He gave it to me.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“If they say nothing is wrong, does that mean I didn't hear Mommy?”
I felt the question settle heavily between us.
“No,” I said carefully. “It would mean they didn't find what they were looking for. It wouldn't mean you were trying to trick us.”
He frowned.
“But I heard her.”
“I know that's what you remember.”
I paused.
“And we'll listen to what the professionals tell us, too.”
He looked down at his hands.
I worried that he might think I was returning to my earlier disbelief.
So I added, “You don't have to convince me by being upset, Ethan. I know this matters to you.”
He looked up.
“Okay.”
It wasn't a perfect answer.
There probably wasn't one.
I was trying to hold two things together: my son's certainty and the need to let qualified professionals establish what had happened.
I couldn't promise that his interpretation was correct.
I couldn't dismiss it either.
Laura's mother listened quietly.
When Ethan leaned against her, she placed an arm around him.
I watched them and thought about the family we had been before Laura died.
We had ordinary disagreements.
We worried about money and work and the things parents worried about.
We made plans for weekends.
We assumed tomorrow would arrive.
Now every familiar detail seemed to carry a weight I hadn't noticed before.
The cup.
The umbrella.
The jacket I had worn to the cemetery.
The sound of Ethan asking for his mother.
I wanted to remember all of it.
I also wanted to stop remembering for a few minutes.
The medical team continued working.
We were still waiting for a verified explanation.
Nobody in the room had one.
I took another sip of water and set the cup down.
Then I placed my hand over Ethan's shoulder.
Whatever the answer turned out to be, he would not have to face it alone.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: The Specialist Told Us Not to Draw Conclusions Yet, but I Could See That the Examination Had Changed Everyone’s Expectations
My Son Asked Me to Question the One Thing I Thought I Had Already Accepted
Part 10 of 24
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