It wasn’t just grief for his father, and it wasn’t just anger at me.

He was terrified, facing something terrible all by himself.

“He’s been carrying this alone,” I said, looking toward the double doors where my son had just vanished.

“He wanted to protect you,” Harold said quietly, his hand dropping from my shoulder. “After losing Thomas, he probably couldn’t bear to add to your pain.”

The weight of Harold’s words settled deep in my chest.

My son was hurting, and I had been too wrapped up in my own sorrow to see it.

The coordinator near the sound system cleared her throat, shifting her weight.

“We should go, Eleanor,” Harold murmured, gesturing toward the exit. “Let me walk you to your car.”

I nodded, folding the paper carefully and sliding it into my coat pocket.

The winter air outside was biting, stinging my cheeks as we stepped into the empty parking lot.

The streetlights cast long, pale shadows across the dark asphalt.

Harold walked beside me, his hands deep in his coat pockets, his pace matching mine.