My name is Rebecca, but everyone calls me Becky. I’m 30, and two years ago I lost my five-year-old son, Caleb, in a sudden, senseless accident. One moment he was laughing in our backyard, the next I was calling an ambulance. A part of me died with him.
I function—I work, pay bills, breathe—but everything feels empty. The only thing that keeps me grounded is a cedar chest in our bedroom filled with Caleb’s things: his dinosaur hoodie, tiny sneakers, crayon drawings, and a silver bracelet from my grandmother. When the grief is unbearable, I hold his hoodie and breathe in what’s left of him.
My husband, Ethan, tries. But his mother, Lorraine, always insisted I should “move on.” One day I came home and the chest was gone. I found Caleb’s belongings stuffed in a trash bag, stained with garbage. Lorraine had thrown them away, saying I was too weak to let go.
While salvaging what I could, I realized the silver bracelet was missing. Weeks later, I saw Lorraine wearing a “new” silver bracelet. A pawn shop owner confirmed she’d sold Caleb’s bracelet for cash.
I planned carefully. I installed a nanny cam in the guest room where she stayed. Then I invited the family to dinner. During the meal, I played the footage of Lorraine stealing the chest and showed the pawn receipt with her signature. The room fell silent. Ethan threw her out.
Then I played a recording of Caleb’s voice saying, “Goodnight, Mommy. I love you to the moon and back.” No one could speak.
Lorraine tried to erase my son. She failed. His memory is safe. His voice still lives with me.
I will always protect him—even now. And no one gets to decide how a mother grieves.