Switching sides of the bed seemed to help a little. I could smell Tom’s scent on his pillow and felt comforted. He didn’t seem as far away. Changing places meant I faced my empty space rather than his which was much easier. But in the hollow hours between midnight and dawn, grief and guilt, should’ve and wished I had, clamored to fill the stillness.
Following my son’s weekly appointment our therapist spent a few minutes with me. Bob filled me in on progress. General things. What to look for, how to help. State of the kiddo.
“It troubles him when he hears you crying at night. He doesn’t know what to do. So we talked about that. I gave him a little help.”
I trusted Bob. He was a constant, moderating, familiar figure, available for us whenever we needed. I asked no questions about confidences he kept. He would always tell me what I most needed to know to support my son.
Late one night not long after our conversation I lay with tears dampening my pillow. It was then I found out what Bob had advised if my boy heard crying from the floor below.
His young voice called down from the staircase landing.
“Good for you, Mommy! You’re doing great. You just cry that pain out!”
After a laugh and a nose-blow it was just too hard to keep crying.