A/N: I wrote this short story a couple of days ago in remembrance of my cousin. The basic plot is based on a true story involving my aunt and uncle a few years ago. Please read and review telling me what you thought.

I walked through the graveyard, wordlessly. How many times I had come here in the last month was a mystery to me. I traced one finger over one of the headstones as I continued walking. The name scripted was Anne Johansson: beloved daughter, wife, and mother. 1966-1988 R.I.P.

I tried to picture what kind of life poor Mrs. Anne had led. My visiting to the graveyard let my mind wander around other people’s lives until I reached my own headstone. It was still a ways away so I read another tombstone.

Buster Thomson: May his soul live on in peace. 1899-1988

How peculiar that he and Anne Johansson died in the same year. My feet moved on, automatically to a small headstone. It had fresh flowers on the mound of dirt, and engraved onto it, were the words:

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

Brendan Dawson

1991-1992

Here was where I knelt. I could feel hot tears rolling down my cheeks. Brendan had been my son. He had just turned one a few months before he died. Every time I came here, my mind automatically replayed that fateful day in my head.

“Mrs. Dawson, you have a phone call from the day care center,” Drew said as he leaned his head into my office. I was in the middle of talking with a patient so I told him to hold the phone call. He smiled and went to do as I asked. I considered Drew one of my friends in the hospital where I worked.

Minutes after leaving he came back with a grief stricken look on his face.

“Chyane,” he said, “I think this is an phone call you’ll want to take.”

“I’ll be right back,” I said kindly to the elderly lady I was speaking with.

“Drew, I told you I’ll take it in a minute!” I snapped at him when I was out of the room.

He didn’t reply but held the phone out to me.

“Hello?” I asked; looking back I realized how rude I must’ve sounded.

“Mrs. Dawson, this is Rhonda from the Sunny Side’s day care,” a woman’s voice said.

“Can you please make this quick? I’m in a hurry,” I said curtly.

“Ma’am, I really don’t know how to tell you this,” the woman said sadly. How I didn’t know what she was going to say next, still surprises me.

“Your son Brendan is dead.” I froze.

“Pardon?” I whispered.

“This morning we put him down for a nap. There was a nail in the wall. We think his clothes must’ve got tangled up on it or something because when we came into the room, he had suffocated. I’m so sorry.”

I hardly heard her. Brenadan? Dead? No. He couldn’t be dead. I had only just held him this morning! No words left my lips as I hung up on the woman.

“Chyane….I’m so sorry,” Drew said, trying to pull me into a hug. I shoved him away. Silently, I left the hall and walked out to my car. Trembling slightly, I called my husband, Jimmy.

“Hello?” he asked in his deep voice. I wished I could let him wrap me up in his arms and hold me. But we were miles and miles apart.

“Jim, the day care called,” I said, “they said….they said Brendan is dead.” There was a long silence at the other end of the phone.

“Tell me this is a joke,” I pleaded. “Tell me it’s not true!”

“Chyane, I’m going to meet you at the day care, all right? I want you to call my mom, ok?” and without another word he hung up. Now was when I felt two tears trickle down my cheeks. I angrily wiped them away. This couldn’t be happening. I angrily threw the cell phone onto the passenger seat as I started up the car. I wasn’t going to call Lou because nothing was wrong. I was going to go to the day care and they would all yell that they fooled me. I tried to convince myself…

I drove the five miles to the day care, not thinking, and hardly breathing. When I pulled into the parking lot, I saw Jim’s red truck already there. Shaking, I climbed out of my car and walked inside. I had failed to notice the police cars surrounding the building.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry. No one is allowed inside right now. One of the children has had an accident,” the lady at the front desk said.

“My name is Chyane Dawson….I got a call….” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the sentence. The woman made a small note of comprehending.

“I’m sorry. Go on in,” she said sadly. The first person I saw was my husband. His face was taut with grief. When he saw me, he pulled me into a close hug.

“Chyane, it’s him. Brendan,” he whispered to me. I could see he was fighting not to cry. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want to be upset. My baby boy wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. But then I looked over Jim’s shoulder and saw a baby boy lying in a crib. He wasn’t breathing….and it was Brendan. I pulled away from Jim and made for the door. I pushed past Lou who had just arrived (Jim had obviously called her) and Lauren and Alex (Jim’s brother) who were also walking through the front door.

“I’m really sorry,” Lauren said in that sweet tone that I could never imitate.

“For what?” I snapped before making my way out.

When I got out of the day care I began to run. I had to run as fast as I could….I didn’t know where I was going, I just needed to get away.

Soon my breathing was coming out in short gasps and I slowed to a stop. Now was when the tears came. I sank to the cold concrete, sobbing.

It wasn’t long before I felt someone pull me to my feet and embrace me.

“God, Jim, why’d it have to be Brendan?” I sobbed into Jim’s shirt.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t know.”

As I laid the flowers on the ground, I could hear someone come up behind me.

“The more you come here, the harder it will be to let go,” a man’s voice said.

“I’m not ever going to let go, Jim,” I whispered. He knelt down beside me and pulled me close.

“Come on, let’s go home,” he said. I let him pull me up to my feet and hand in hand we walked away from the small headstone.