The next person who came to speak with us was a member of the medical team.
She introduced herself, then asked whether I could answer a few additional questions about Laura.
I stood immediately.
“Of course.”
She glanced at Ethan.
“We can speak here if you are comfortable, or we can find somewhere a little quieter.”
I looked at my son.
He tightened his grip on my hand.
“Can he stay with me?”
“Certainly,” she said. “We will be careful about what we discuss.”
She pulled a chair closer and opened a notebook.
“I know you have already provided information, but the team wants to make sure we have an accurate account of the circumstances surrounding your wife's death and the events afterward.”
I nodded.
“Ask whatever you need to ask.”
She began with the days before Laura died.
Had she complained of feeling unwell?
Had she experienced any unusual symptoms?
Had she visited a doctor recently?
I answered as honestly as I could.
Laura had seemed tired at times, but she had been busy, as most parents were. She had taken care of Ethan, managed the ordinary work of our household, and worried about all the little things that made up a family’s life.
I had not understood her tiredness as a warning.
Now I wondered whether I should have.
“Did she tell you she was experiencing anything unusual on the night before her death?” the medical professional asked.
I thought back to our last evening together.
We had talked about Ethan’s schoolwork and what we needed from the grocery store.
Laura had reminded me to move a load of laundry before going to bed.
She had sounded like herself.
“No,” I said. “Not that I remember.”
“Did she seem distressed?”
“No.”
I paused.
“She seemed tired, but I didn't think she was in danger.”
The woman wrote something down.
“I understand.”
Her calmness did not comfort me, but I appreciated that she did not pretend my answers were more useful than they were.
Then she asked about the funeral home.
I told her again that Laura’s hand had felt warm when I touched it.
I described how I had pulled back slightly, surprised by the sensation.
I remembered looking at the funeral director, who explained that the conditions surrounding preparation could affect how the skin felt.
At the time, I had accepted his explanation.
I had wanted to accept it.
“Did you mention the sensation to anyone else?” she asked.
“No. I thought it was probably nothing.”
“Did anyone else make a similar observation?”
“Not that I know of.”
She wrote another note.
I leaned forward.
“Is that why you are asking these questions?”
“I am asking because the team needs a complete history. I cannot tell you that any one detail explains what they are evaluating.”
I nodded, though I wanted to press her for more.
She continued asking about the sequence of events at the funeral and cemetery.
When had Ethan spoken to me?
What exactly had he said?
Who had been standing nearby?
I answered as carefully as I could.
I remembered the feel of his fingers pulling at my jacket.
I remembered how small his voice sounded beneath the words spoken by the adults around us.
And I remembered my own first reaction.
I had told him he was grieving.
I had thought he needed reassurance, not an investigation.
“Did you believe he was deliberately making something up?” she asked.
“No.”
The answer came quickly.
“I thought he was mistaken. I thought grief had made him hear something that wasn't there.”
She looked at me without judgment.
“Those are different things.”
“Yes,” I said. “I know that now.”
I wished I had known it earlier.
The woman closed her notebook for a moment.
“I want to be clear that we are still reviewing the findings. The questions I am asking do not establish a conclusion.”
“I understand.”
But understanding the limits of what she could tell me did not make the uncertainty easier.
Ethan had been quiet throughout the conversation.
When she finished, he looked up at her.
“Are you trying to find out if Mommy was calling me?”
The woman's expression softened.
“We are trying to understand everything we can about what happened.”
“Will you tell us when you know?”
“Yes. Someone will speak with your father when the team has information that can be shared.”
Ethan nodded.
He seemed to accept that answer more easily than I did.
After she left, I sat beside him and rubbed my palms against my jeans.
My hands were rough from years of construction work.
I had used them to lift lumber, carry tools, and hold Laura’s hand through ordinary days that I had once believed would continue for decades.
Now they felt clumsy and useless.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Did Mommy seem tired because she knew something was wrong?”
I looked at him.
“I don't know, buddy.”
He studied my face.
“Could she have known?”
“I suppose it's possible she felt something she didn't tell me. But I don't know that she did.”
He looked down at his shoes.
“I wish I had asked her.”
The words hurt because I understood them.
I wished I had asked Laura more questions about her tiredness.
I wished I had paid closer attention to the ordinary things that now seemed important.
But I also knew that we could not turn every memory into a warning after the fact.
“Ethan, you were seven,” I said. “You were not responsible for knowing whether something was wrong.”
“But I heard her.”
“I know you remember hearing her.”
He frowned slightly.
“That's not exactly the same.”
“No,” I admitted. “It isn't.”
I did not want to make a promise I could not keep.
I wanted to tell him that his mother had called him and that he had been right about everything.
I also wanted to tell him that there was a simple explanation for all of it.
Neither statement would have been honest.
So I stayed beside him.
The notebook had taken our answers, but it had not given us certainty.
The medical team was still examining the information, and we were still waiting to hear what it meant.
For now, I could do the one thing I had failed to do quickly enough before.
I could listen.
Click here to continue reading: PART 19: When Laura’s Mother Asked What We Would Do If the Answer Changed Everything
My Son Asked Me to Question the One Thing I Thought I Had Already Accepted
Part 18 of 24
