She led me to the backyard, to a small flower bed with a wind chime swaying in the breeze. She tended it every year. That’s what Sophie had noticed. When she asked why the flowers were special, Helen told her they were for her brother—someone part of the family, even if he wasn’t here.
That night, after Sophie fell asleep, I told Evan everything. He closed his eyes and nodded. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want that pain to touch our family.”
The following weekend, we went to Helen’s house as a family. No whispers, no secrets. We stood in the backyard by the flowers and explained in simple words to Sophie: her brother had been very small, he wasn’t alive, and it was okay to talk about him.
Sophie thought for a moment, then asked, “Will the flowers come back?”
“Yes,” Helen said. “Every spring.”
Sophie nodded solemnly. “Then I’ll pick one for him.”
She still sets toys aside sometimes. When I ask why, she says, “Just in case he needs them.” And I don’t correct her.
Grief doesn’t need to be hidden. It needs space.
Maybe that’s where healing begins.
