No parent should outlive their child.
That was the thought that ran through my head after my daughter died. Her husband was with her in the car when a drunk driver skipped a red light and crashed into them.
Luckily, their little boy, Noah, wasn't with them.
I was babysitting him when I got the call that changed both our lives forever.
No parent should outlive their child.
I brought Noah home for good the day after the funeral.
There was no long discussion, no family meeting.
Nobody else in the family was equipped to take in a child, so he came home with me, and that was that.
He was three years old, small enough that his shoes kept slipping off as we walked up my front steps.
I brought Noah home the day after the funeral.
He didn't cry.
He just held my hand tighter than usual, like he was afraid I might disappear too.
"You'll be staying here with me from now on, okay?"
He looked up at me with red, tired eyes.
"Where's Mommy?"
He just held my hand like he was afraid I might disappear too.
I kneeled and pulled him close.
"Remember when I told you that Mommy and Daddy had an accident? I'm sorry, baby, but they can't come home anymore. But I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere."
He nodded like he understood. Then he asked if he could have cereal.
