Because Noah had never been the kind of child who invented imaginary friends.
And something else was bothering me.
Something I couldn’t explain.
That evening, I asked Noah again.
“Sweetheart,” I said softly while we sat on the couch, “when you said Ethan came to see you… what did you mean?”
Noah looked down at his hands.
“He came during recess,” he said quietly.
“What did he look like?”
“Like Ethan,” Noah replied simply. “But… brighter.”
A chill ran down my spine.
“What did he say to you?”
Noah hesitated for a long moment.
Then he whispered:
“He said you cry too much at night.”
My breath caught in my chest.
Because Noah slept in the room down the hall.
He never heard me crying.
At least… I thought he didn’t.
“What else did Ethan say?” I asked.
Noah’s voice became even softer.
“He said it wasn’t your fault.”
I felt the room tilt slightly.
Because there was something I had never told Noah.
Something I had barely even admitted to myself.
The day of the accident, Ethan had begged me to let him skip soccer practice.
He said he was tired.
But I insisted he go.
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