Ethan’s “Gift” Wasn’t New. But I’d Never Heard It Like This.
Ethan had always been… different.
Not in a dramatic, movie way.
In a quiet, unsettling way that made adults go silent and change the subject.
When he was three, he once looked at the old chair my late husband used to sit in and said, matter-of-fact:
“Grandpa is there. He’s smiling.”
I told myself it was imagination.
Then he described details he couldn’t have known.
Then he did it again.
Over time, I learned something simple:
When Ethan said something with that serious, concentrated look… I listened.
So when he whispered about Jessica at the funeral, I didn’t debate it.
I moved.
I took him into the hallway and knelt in front of him.
“What exactly is she saying?” I asked, keeping my voice low, controlled.
Ethan’s lip trembled.
“She says… ‘Look at my stomach.’”
I swallowed.
“Anything else?”
His voice cracked.
“She says… ‘Baby.’”
The word hit me like a physical blow.
Jessica would have told me if she was pregnant.
We told each other everything.
Unless she didn’t feel safe.
I looked back toward the chapel doors.
To the front row where my son-in-law, Derek, sat like a statue—perfect posture, dry eyes, grief performed with too much control.
My nursing instincts, the ones I’d tried to silence with grief, woke up angry.
Something was wrong.
I stood.
“Ethan, sit right here,” I told him. “Do not move. I’m coming back.”
Then I went to find the funeral director.
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