Three months before the funeral, I’d noticed the change in my son. It started small—he stopped talking about school, stopped inviting friends over. Mikey had always been quiet, more comfortable with his books and sketch pads than with other kids, but this was different. This was withdrawal.
“Everything okay at school?” I asked one night while we washed dishes together—one of our routines since his mom left when he was eight.
“Fine,” he mumbled, eyes fixed on the plate he was drying.
“Made any new friends in high school?” I tried again.
His shoulders tensed slightly. “Not really.”
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