Dead Child

My husband says I’m the luckiest girl alive, but seeing my dead son in the ballroom of my husband’s mansion isn’t exactly lucky.

4 years ago, my 1st husband died. I don’t think I’ve met anyone as selfless, and joyful as Andrew. I remember the times he would lift Vance, my son, up and swing him around the garden. His little laugh brightening up the world. What I would give for me to go back to those times.

Later on, I found out Andrew had died from a tragic car accident. I remember my knees clashing with the floor when the police officer came to my door. I stayed in my room, weeping, trying to grasp on to the thought that my husband was gone. I left Vance to himself, making food, doing laundry, at only 11 years old. Later on, I realize that’s what made him the independent boy he is now.

At the funeral, it was off in the countryside, Vance said it “helped with the peace of the dead.” We had lived in a suburban town at the time, so it was definitely a change of scenery. At the funeral, the air was cold and crisp, my dark brown hair was blowing into my face, my warm tears streaming down my cheeks. I couldn't believe that Andrew, the boy I had known since high school was in the casket in front of me.

Later on, I met Henry at a party for singles who wanted to meet someone else. I know, I didn't want to be that person, but I needed someone. Henry was a rich man, cold personality and was in his own world sometimes. But his looks really caught me. And I ended up moving in with him a year later, in his mansion, where as an adult, even I could get lost. But we were a small family, Henry, Vance, and I, we were perfectly happy. Or so I thought...