Two years after my little boy died, the only pieces of him I had left were preserved in a cedar chest I held dear. When my mother-in-law tossed it in the dumpster and called his things "garbage," I swore I'd make her regret it. And I did... right in front of the whole family.
My name is Rebecca, but everyone calls me Becky. I'm 30 years old, and two years ago, my whole world ended when I lost my son Caleb. He was five years old then. He was the most beautiful, kind little boy you could imagine.
Grayscale shot of an adorable little boy | Source: Unsplash
It was a horrible, senseless accident that I still can't fully talk about without falling apart. One second he was chasing bubbles in our backyard, laughing that sweet giggle that could light up any room. And the next second, I was screaming into my phone for an ambulance.
I died that day too, in every way that matters.
The grief counselor says I'm "functioning well," but that's just therapist language for "not completely broken." I go to work, pay bills, and breathe through each day. But everything still feels hollow, like I'm walking through life in a glass box.
