I finally broke down into a sob, on my would be 6 year old sons grave , blankly staring at the cupcakes, flowers and balloons I brought for him. I had been coming here every year since he had died, bringing him gifts and telling him stories of his siblings and their lives. I had been doing this for the past 5 years, but today was different.
Today was his 6th birthday. I had thrown a small party at home, inviting his siblings, their friends and our family. But even with all the decorations and food, no one came. I had been expecting it, but it still hurt. I had to explain to my other children why no one had come, and I could see the hurt in their eyes.
I had to come here, to his grave, to tell him what had happened. I was so sorry that he was alone again on his birthday, that he had been alone for the past five years. I wished I could have done more for him, but I knew it was too late.
I stayed with him for hours, talking to him and crying for what could have been. I wished I could have seen him grow up, to have had the chance to see him turn six. I wished I could have done more for him, to have given him the birthday he deserved.
I eventually had to leave, but I promised him that I would come back soon. I promised him that I would never forget him, and that I would make sure his siblings remembered him too. I said goodbye, and left with a heavy heart.
