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

direction. It was, objectively, a lopsided little bird.

I had told him it was beautiful.

He had rolled his eyes with the theatrical exhaustion of a thirteen-year-old who has been caught being touched by something. “Mom,” he said, “you are legally required to say that.”

I started crying at the red light. Not quietly — the kind of crying that takes over continue reading …