My thirteen-year-old son Owen drowned in a lake last month during a fishing trip with my husband

I told myself he was coping in the only way he knew how. I told myself we were both just surviving.

But there were moments — sitting in Owen’s room in the evenings, listening to the particular silence of a house where a child used to be — when I felt like I had lost two people at the lake and only one of them was thirteen years old.

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