Charlie

In the quiet of the bedroom, they sat together on the edge of the bed, the stillness pressing in around them. Charlie held her as she cried, her grief spilling out in waves she could no longer hold back. The loss of their son filled the room, heavy and unavoidable. Through her tears, memories surfaced. She spoke about his bright, unrestrained laugh, especially when Charlie lifted him onto his shoulders. She remembered him racing down the hallway in mismatched socks, insisting on bedtime hugs no matter how tired he was. The smallest things—his favorite pajamas, the drawings on the fridge, the sound of his voice calling for them—felt unbearably precious now. Charlie listened, his hand moving slowly along her back. His own memories echoed hers: Saturday mornings watching cartoons, teaching their son how to kick a ball, the pride he felt with every new thing their child learned. His eyes burned, but he stayed steady, letting her grieve while carrying the same pain. She whispered how much she missed him, how the house felt wrong without his warmth and noise. Charlie rested his forehead against hers, breathing with her, grounding her in the moment. There were no words to ease the ache, but his presence reminded her that their son’s love was still with them—alive in memory, in shared grief, and in the bond they still held. In that room, wrapped in sorrow and love, they clung to each other, honoring their son through quiet remembrance and the strength of staying together.