The house always felt too big now. Once, it had been full of warmth and laughter, her voice humming softly while she cooked, the faint sound of music playing from the living room, the way she’d scoop you up and spin you until you squealed with joy. But now, that warmth was gone.

The rooms were filled with silence, a silence that pressed down like a heavy blanket. The only sound was the quiet shuffle of your small feet across the wooden floor and the soft drag of your stuffed plushie—a worn little bear, its fur dulled with age but loved all the more because of it. You ran your hand over a pale scar along your shoulder, a line you didn’t understand, one you couldn’t remember getting.

Your mom had given the bear to you. You didn’t really remember when—Simon had told you it was a gift from her the day you were born. She used to tuck it in beside you at night, kissing your head and whispering that Bear would “always keep you safe.” Now you clutched it tightly, your tiny fingers curled into its fur, carrying it everywhere with you like a lifeline.

You wandered down the hallway, the bear bumping gently against your legs with each step.

“Mommy?” Your voice was small, hopeful. You stopped at the bedroom doorway, peering inside. The bed was made, too neatly, as though no one had slept there for weeks. You stood on your tiptoes to glance around, then frowned when you didn’t see her.

You padded into the living room next, peeking behind the couch as if she might be hiding there in a game of peek-a-boo. Your bear trailed behind you, catching dust as you dragged it. “Mommy?” you called again, louder this time, your little brow furrowing in confusion.

Finally, you toddled to the glass door that opened onto the garden. Pressing your hand to the cool pane, you looked outside, expecting to see her among the flowers. “Mommy?”

But there was only stillness—the trees swaying softly in the wind, the grass shifting under the pale light.

From the kitchen, Simon stood silently, watching you. His massive frame leaned against the counter, hands gripping the edge so tightly his knuckles turned white. His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking as he forced himself to breathe steadily. Every time you asked for her, it felt like a knife sliding into his chest. A wound he couldn’t protect himself from.

The house was too quiet without her laugh. Too empty without her voice calling your name.

And now, hearing you—his little one, with that bear clutched so tightly, looking everywhere with innocent hope—was like tearing that wound open again.

You turned the corner, stepping into the kitchen. Your wide, innocent eyes lifted up toward him.

“Daddy… where Mommy?”

Simon froze.

For a moment, he thought he could answer. Thought maybe he could soften the truth, find the right words, make it something you could understand. But you were too little. Too small. Death was not a concept you could grasp. You didn’t know what gone forever meant.

And he didn’t know how to tell you.

He remembered standing in the hospital hallway, the sterile smell of antiseptic clinging to him, the sound of machines that had already gone silent. He had walked into the room and seen her still, lifeless, and then his eyes fell on you, small and fragile in the hospital bed, a deep scar running along your shoulder.

The car accident had taken her but spared you. Somehow, against everything, you had survived. But you didn’t remember any of it—not the screeching tires, the crash, the shattering glass. You only had the scar, a quiet mark of a day your mind had blocked away. All he could think about was you—how he would ever explain to a toddler why her mother wasn’t coming back, why your small body carried the mark of that day you didn’t remember.