Two years after my wife and six-year-old son died in a car accident, I was still technically alive—but that’s about all I could say for myself.
I’m Michael Ross. I’m 40. And my life ended in a hospital hallway when a doctor looked at me with tired eyes and said, “I’m so sorry.”
Lauren and our son Caleb were gone. Hit by a drunk driver.
“They went quickly,” someone told me, as if that softened anything.
After the funeral, the house felt wrong. Not quiet—wrong.
Lauren’s favorite mug sat by the coffee maker like it was waiting. Caleb’s sneakers were still kicked off by the door. His drawings stayed on the fridge because I couldn’t bring myself to move them. I stopped sleeping in our bedroom and camped out on the couch with the TV glowing all night, just for the noise.
I went to work. I came home. I ate takeout from the same three places. I stared at walls.
People told me I was strong.
I wasn’t. I was just still breathing.
About a year later, I was on that same couch at two in the morning, scrolling through Facebook because sleep still wouldn’t come. The usual blur went by—politics, pets, vacation photos I didn’t want to see.
