She had raised Stefan for eight years.
She knew which foods he hated.
She knew what scared him.
She knew what made him laugh.
She knew how he liked his sandwiches cut and which stuffed animal he reached for when he was sick.
I had carried him.
I had given birth to him.
And I had spent eight years mourning him.
Both things were true.
One truth didn’t erase the other.
Eventually, Beth and I sat down alone.
“I don’t want to take your place,” I told her.
Her eyes
