Most people see me as Ms. Rose, the reliable kindergarten teacher with extra tissues and band-aids. But behind every routine, I carry a world that’s missing one person.
Five years ago, I buried my son.
I used to think loss would heal.
My world ended the night I lost Owen. The hardest part isn’t the funeral or the empty house; it’s how life insists on continuing, even when yours has stopped.
***
He was 19 the night the phone rang. I remember the way my hands shook as I answered, Owen’s half-finished mug of cocoa still warm on the counter.
“Rose? Is this Owen’s mom?”
“Yes. Who is this?” I asked.
He was 19 the night the phone rang.
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“This is Officer Bentley. I’m so sorry. There’s been an accident. Your son —”
I pressed the phone to my ear, the world narrowing to a single sound.
“A taxi. A drunk driver. He didn’t… he didn’t suffer,” the officer tried.
I couldn’t remember if I said anything at all.
The next week vanished into casseroles and murmured prayers.
Friends and strangers came and went, their voices blending into a dull hum.
“I’m so sorry. There’s been an accident.”
Mrs. Grant from next door handed me a lasagna and squeezed my shoulder. “You’re not alone, Rose.”
I tried to believe her.
At the cemetery, Pastor Reed offered to walk with me to the grave.
“I can manage, thank you,” I insisted, even though my knees nearly buckled.
I pressed my hand to the dirt, whispering, “Owen, I’m still here, baby. Mom’s still here.”
“You’re not alone.”
Five years went by before I knew it.
I stayed in the same house, poured myself into teaching, and tried to laugh when my students handed me lopsided drawings.
“Ms. Rose, did you see my picture?”
“Beautiful, Caleb! Is that your dog or a dragon?”
“Both!” he grinned.
And that’s what kept me going.
Five years went by.
It was Monday again. I parked in my usual spot, whispered, “Let me make today count,” and walked into the noise of the morning bell.
Sara at the front desk waved, and I smiled back, shouldering my bag and a sense of calm I worked hard to fake.
My class was already humming. I handed Tyler a tissue and started the morning song. I like how routine dulled the edges of memory.
At 8:05, the principal, Ms. Moreno, appeared in my doorway.
It was Monday again.
“Ms. Rose, could I have a moment?” she asked.
She led in a little boy clutching a green raincoat, his brown hair slightly too long, wide eyes darting around my classroom.
“This is Theo,” she said. “He just transferred. District rezoning shuffled half the kindergarten lists last week,” Ms. Moreno added, like it was nothing.
Theo nodded. He let Ms. Moreno guide him to my side, his small hand clutching the strap of a dinosaur backpack.
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