I’m Angela Harris. I was 38 that year. My husband Jack and I had one child, Matthew, who was 12 and thought brushing his hair before school was an insult to his independence. I used to fix the cowlick at the back anyway. He’d grumble, then leave with it still sticking up.

We lived in Chicago. Jack worked at a bank, liked fishing, and wore the same faded plaid shirt until I hid it in the laundry. We weren’t rich. We paid our bills and had enough room to help people, which is how I explained what came next.

Jack inherited a small apartment near downtown from his grandmother. When my sister Veronica and her husband, Ruben, said they couldn’t save for a place of their own, we let them live there without rent. Jack called it helping family. I agreed. I liked being the person who could say yes.

I also helped my parents, Dolores and Robert. I paid part of their insurance, bought some of my mother’s prescriptions, and covered repairs on Dad’s truck. When Veronica got married, I paid most of the reception bill. I remember the paper napkins had little gold rings printed on them. I don’t know why that stayed with me.

There were small things. Mumbling details, really. When I called my parents about a school concert, Mom said she’d check the date, then forgot. Veronica would ask me to pick up something for her, but she rarely asked how Matthew was doing. I noticed. I just filed it under everyone being busy.

I was good at that.

The Saturday Jack and Matthew died, they left for Lake Michigan at eight in the morning. Matthew had packed so many snacks that Jack sent me a picture of the bag and wrote, “We’ll be fishing in between meals.” I laughed. I made coffee and set the kitchen table for three, because they said they’d be back around six.

At seven, Jack didn’t answer. I called again at eight. His phone went to voicemail. I told myself the signal was bad near the water. I remember wiping a clean patch on the counter with my sleeve. I’d already cleaned it.

At 8:47, two police officers knocked at my door. I don’t remember what I said first. I remember the dinner plates still on the table, and the officer asking me to confirm my name.

A drunk driver had run a stop sign and hit Jack’s truck on the driver’s side. Jack died at the scene. Matthew was alive, but in surgery.

I went to the hospital. I kept asking for the same information in different words, as if one version might come out better. Dr. Miller told me Matthew had severe head injuries and swelling. He said the next hours mattered. I held my boy’s hand and told him I was there.

Jack’s funeral was four days later. My parents came, sat near the back, and left soon after the service. Veronica and Ruben came too. I don’t remember if they hugged me. I remember Mom asking whether I’d found someone to pick up the food trays.

That sounds small. It wasn’t small to me then, but I kept pretending it was.

A week after Jack’s funeral, I called Mom because I couldn’t manage all the hospital visits and the house by myself. She said she and Dad were helping Veronica and Ruben settle in at the apartment. They’d promised to help them with some furniture.

I said Jack had just died. Mom told me she knew, and that I was strong. She said it like she was describing a job I’d already done.

Then Matthew stayed in the hospital for six months. I read to him, talked about baseball, and told him things Jack would’ve said. I did not know if he could hear me. I kept doing it because sitting quietly felt worse.

My family visited three times. I counted, though I’m not proud of that. They came in, asked the doctor a few questions, and checked their phones. Once, Veronica said she had to leave because she was tired. She was pregnant by then and looked uncomfortable standing in the hospital room.

I understood pregnancy can be hard. I was not angry at her for needing to sit down. I was angry that I kept finding a reason for everyone.

On a July morning, Dr. Miller called me and asked me to come in. I was at home. I drove there without remembering most of the trip. Matthew had died about an hour earlier.

I called Mom from the hospital. I told her I needed help burying my son. There was a pause. She said they were flying to Cancun the next morning with Veronica and Ruben. The trip was paid for, she said, and cost $8,000.

I asked if she was really going to go. She said I could handle the funeral, because I always handled things. That was the part I heard most clearly. Not the money. Not the travel date. The old job description.

Veronica called after Mom told her I was upset. She said she was sorry about Matthew, but she and Ruben weren’t canceling. She was pregnant, she said, and this might be her last chance to relax before the baby.

I told her he was her nephew. She answered that his death was my problem, not hers.

I did not yell. I said, “Don’t say his name again.” Then I hung up.

I sat in Matthew’s room for a while. His baseball trophies were still lined up on the shelf. His glove was on the chair near his bed, and there was a little bit of dried mud in the stitching. I knew it was there because I’d tried to clean it once and he told me to leave it alone.

The funeral was on Thursday. My friend Sarah came with me. Matthew’s teacher, Mrs. Moore, drove over an hour to bring a letter from his classmates. My parents and Veronica were not there. They were in Cancun.

Matthew’s casket was placed beside Jack’s. I listened to the service and tried to follow along. I kept thinking of the trip: my parents boarding a plane, Veronica with a hand on her stomach, Ruben carrying the bags. I knew those pictures might not be fair. I also knew they were real.