When my husband and I got back from the hospital the morning Brody died, we had to tell our oldest son what happened. We walked over to a little pond near our house. We crouched down next to him and told him that Brody had gone to be with Jesus in Heaven.
Immediately he started crying and repeating the phrase “But we never got to…” over and over.
It was heartbreaking. And it was exactly how I felt, too. We had so many dreams for them. They were going to play together in our new basement. They would have sleepovers in each other’s rooms. We would all snuggle as a family and watch movies together.
Brody was starting to say more words. We kept telling Bryson that soon Brody would find a name for him. Bryson wanted it to be Bry Bry.
I’m quite terrified of having another child; I’m apparently not very good at this. Our oldest is a wonderful four-and-a-half year old who arrived with his own bizarre surprises. He was supposed to have surgery on his left hand the day of Brody’s funeral. That’s another story though – at least it’s not one I want to share right now.
But it adds to the weight of this loss. Bryson was a loving older brother and we were eager to see our boys grow up together. The family picture is different now, and we never got to…