When we opened the doors, on the day we moved in, we knew we had made the right choice. The garden was lush, green and very English. The pond, with its lilies and bluebell trim, looked beautiful. It still looked beautiful seven years later, when we pulled the body of our son from it. After laying him to rest, we sat in the garden and stared at it while his sister cried. It wasn’t long after that that she left; to foreign climes and infrequent contact. My husband blamed himself, weeping every night over the cruelty of words once said in anger.

I don’t cry anymore. I have cried a pond and more, alone at night as the leaves rustle through the garden. Now we just rest, waiting to join our boy.

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