Isaac is about to turn 18 months old. It’s the same age Nicholas was the day he sat on my hip as two police officers stood in my kitchen and told me his daddy was dead.

18 months – the same size hands that wave goodbye, the same soapy smell in their blond hair, the same yell of “daddy” with a toothy grin. It’s another thread of grief that tangles itself in this picture.

It’s so easy to compare our children – not to see who’s ahead or who’s behind, but simply for nostalgia’s sake. They have the same laugh! Remember when…?

But my memories of Nicholas at this age have sunk into oblivion. Instead of nostalgia, there’s the imprint of raw grief and the regret that I don’t remember more.

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