My son had only been back at kindergarten for a week when he climbed into the car, buckled himself halfway into his seat, and said it like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. “Mom, Ethan came to see me.” I froze mid-step. The word slipped out, casual and startling. Ethan. My firstborn. My bright, eight-year-old boy who had been dead for six months. The parking lot noises—the tires squealing, the engines revving, the faint chatter…
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