Three Years After I Buried My Son

Synopsis

Today was the anniversary of our son's death. I sat in front of his gravestone for half an hour. My husband, Andrew, said nothing. He stood behind me, lighting cigarette after cigarette. On the way down the hill, he finally spoke. "Honey, I need to tell you something." His throat bobbed before he continued, "Sharon gave birth to my son. He's two years old." Sharon was his so-called god-sister. Hearing that, I didn't get angry. I didn't cry. I didn't even feel surprised, as if I'd long known this day would come. Seeing that I stayed silent, Andrew stepped forward and grabbed my hand, his voice tightening in urgency. "Jackson has been gone for three years. You won't let me touch you. I know you're still in pain, but I can't be without a child. "I'll put that child under your name. From now on, he'll be our son. And I won't let Sharon take away a single bit of your status." I curled my cracked lips into a faint smile and nodded without a word. Andrew thought I had agreed, and kept going on about the child's name and the paperwork for registering him. I listened quietly, occasionally giving a soft response. Then I looked up at the sky. The sun was unusually bright today, so bright it was almost blinding. Suddenly, I missed Jackson. Maybe it was time for me to go find him.