Three years ago, his father died.
After the funeral, Caleb didn’t cry. Not at the service, not at the cemetery, not at the house afterward when it was full of casseroles and people who didn’t know what to say. He sat on the stairs in his little black suit, the one we’d had to buy two days before because he’d outgrown his church clothes, and he watched everyone.
When the last guest left, I found him still sitting there.
“Do you want to talk, sweetheart?”
He shook his head.
“Do
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