“At least Callum never disappointed anyone. That’s the one thing grief can’t take from men.”
My daughter sat across the table from a woman she’d never met before, six months pregnant, holding a mug of tea she couldn’t finish.
She told me later, in the recording, that her hand had gone flat against her stomach without her telling it to.
She looked at Simone, surrounded by framed photographs and unopened sympathy cards, drowning in the particular wreckage of losing an only son three months earlier in a boating accident on Lake Correll.
And she couldn’t do it.
She couldn’t hand this woman one more thing to carry.
Because what if she told her the baby was Callum’s?
