We were midway through a beautiful mountain hike—meant to reconnect with friends. That first night, I woke up and he was gone. The tent was quiet, and he wasn’t back until morning. When I mentioned it, he said he was there the whole time. I doubted myself, but brushed it off.
The next night it happened again. I woke up, reached for him—empty space. I slipped out and followed a faint light up the trail. There he was, digging a small grave with our quieter friend beside him. I panicked—until I saw what he was placing inside: a tiny wooden box with our lost daughter’s name on it.
He looked up, grief-stricken. He wasn’t hiding something wrong—he was burying a piece of his heart, trying to mourn alone with someone who understood that particular loss. I realized then that part of him would always belong to her, in a way I never could.