Doctors worked quickly to bring our son into the world. When one finally came to speak with me, her expression told me everything I needed to know before she said a word.
She placed something impossibly small into my arms.
“This is your son,” she said quietly.
Liam was still and silent. I held him against my chest, instinct taking over as tears soaked into his blanket.
“Please,” I whispered. “Stay with me.”
Then, suddenly, a sound cut through the stillness.
A fragile cry.
Liam announced himself to the world with a strength I didn’t know such a small body could hold.
He stayed.
My wife did not.
From that day forward, Christmas carried two emotions at once. Gratitude and heartbreak, bound so tightly together that I could never separate them.
Raising a Child While Holding Grief
I raised Liam alone.
Not because I chose isolation, but because my heart never truly moved forward. It remained anchored to a moment in time. To a woman who smiled at me in a hospital room and joked about our unborn son.
I poured everything I had into being present.
We built sprawling Lego cities across the living room floor.
We baked cookies that burned at the edges and laughed anyway.
I packed lunches, tied shoes, read bedtime stories, and answered questions long after the lights were turned off.
I spoke of his mother often. I told him how brave she was. How deeply she loved. How proud she would have been.
Liam grew into a gentle soul. He shared easily. He apologized even when he wasn’t at fault. He felt deeply and asked thoughtful questions.
I carried pride quietly, with an ache that never fully left.
