My name is Hannah Carter. I’m thirty-five years old. And six months ago, I buried my son.
Or at least, that’s what everyone told me—because the truth is, I never saw him one last time. They didn’t let me. They said I was too weak, that it would be better this way, that they were protecting me.
But no one ever asked whether I wanted to remember… or forget.
Gabriel was eight years old—the kind of child who lit up any room he walked into. He had an easy smile, endlessly curious eyes, and a way of hugging me that made the entire world disappear. On the day of the accident, my husband, Ryan, was driving.
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