Holding my son’s picture in my hands made me cry for a completely different reason this time. It wasn’t just grief or panic—it was pure, aching longing.
The photo showed him in his angel costume from the Christmas photoshoot my mother had arranged. He had been dressed as a little horse for the nativity play, his tiny hands clutching at the fabric of his costume as he smiled so wide his dimples showed. He had looked so happy, so full of life.
Now, all I had was this fragile piece of paper.
For hours, I couldn’t stop crying. Silent sobs turned into gasping breaths, my tears soaking the edges of the picture as I held it close.
Then, without warning, a sharp voice cut through the room.
“Stop f*****g crying! It’s just a damn picture!”
The words slammed into me like a slap.
I barely had t
