That was the main reason I didn’t cry. I did not want her to know how badly I was hurt, how haunted and tormented I was. I wanted her to believe that I was strong, that I would be ok. I wanted her to believe that no matter what had happened she wouldn’t have to worry about me too. I was fine. I was brave. I would survive, no matter how distraught, terrified, and broken I really was.

   It wasn’t until the day of the funeral that I finally cried, and thankfully my mother had not been there to see it. But Cade had.

   The funeral had been over. I was still wearing the small black dress my mother had picked out for me. Abby and Aiden, also dressed in black, had not been as stoic as me throughout the ceremony. They had wept openly. It was a fact that was not missed by most people and at the reception after I was the main topic of conversation. Though they whispered, and thought they were keeping their words from me, I was not as gone as they seemed to think I was. I did not catch it all, but I caught enough to know that their hushed words, and fearful tones were not truly heartfelt, but merely more gossip for them to banter about. Was there something wrong with me? Had the accident ruined me? Had I always been a cold child? Had they somehow managed to miss my oddness until now, when it was so blatantly obvious?

   I’d slipped out of the house, eager to escape the oppressive heat of the house and their phony concern. There was a large, beautiful garden to the right of the house that my mom had been forced to sell the following year. The garden had been my mother’s pride and joy, filled with flowers, strange plants, and wonderful smells. In the far back corner there had been a wooden bench tucked beneath the boughs of a giant willow. It was that bench that I made my way to.

   I sat there for a long time, my hands folded before me as I watched bees buzzing lazily about, and butterflies flitting from here to there. I tried not to think about anything, struggled not to break under the weight of my mourning as it threatened to consume me. I don’t know how long I sat there before I felt the presence of someone else. I lifted my head, blinking against the bright light of the sun that had drifted lower in the sky. It took a few moments to make out the young boy that had wandered into the garden; surprise filled me as I recognized Cade.

   Up until a couple of years ago Cade had been good friends with Aiden. I had always liked him. Unlike Aiden’s other friends he had never tried to push me away, never called me names, and had not found me annoying, or tried to ditch me. He’d always invited me to play with them, always been kind and gentle. He exhibited endless patience with me, even when he’d taught me how to fish and I had insisted on throwing them all back. Aiden had vehemently protested it. Cade had simply done as I’d asked without a word of complaint and an understanding smile that had melted my young heart.

   Then, when I was seven and Cade was eight, his parent’s were killed in a home robbery gone wrong. Cade had been fortunate enough to be at a friend’s house when the murders occurred. He was placed into foster care after, and though he still lived in our town he had no longer lived near us. His friendship with Aiden ended abruptly after, and he’d stopped coming to our house nearly every day. He became distant and unfriendly toward us as he took to moving coldly, and methodically, through his life. At his parent’s funeral the caring friend I’d known, and loved, had ignored me when I tried to convey my sympathy over his awful loss. I’d tried to speak to him twice after that, but he’d walked right past me. Wounded and confused, I had given up trying after that.

   And then, two years later, Cade with two parents gone and me with one, was suddenly standing before me again. He was taller than the last time he’d been at my house, lankier, and already becoming one of the most handsome and sought after boys in school. And yet, that was not the person standing before me in the garden. This person was different. This person was not just a mere boy, not anymore. For the first time I understood that though Cade still looked like a boy, he had long ago stopped being one. He had, in fact, become a man two years ago when his parents were so cruelly ripped away from him. Fate had seen fit to spare him, but longing and pain lingered within his surprisingly wise eyes.

   For the first time I understood why Cade no longer smiled and laughed and talked and played with us anymore. For the first time I understood that though I may do those things again someday, I would never do them in the same way that I had done them just four days ago. For the first time, I understood that though Abby and Aiden had also lost a parent, they did not share what Cade and I did. They did not have to live with the burden of having been spared, when they should have died. My siblings would never wish that they had been home too, so maybe they could have done something to stop it like Cade did. They would never wish that they had been able to warn our dad about the deer sooner, before it had been too late to stop the car. They would never feel guilt over being the ones to survive, when they shouldn’t have. When weshouldn’t have. They did not share what Cade and I did, they never would. They never could, and I was immensely grateful for that fact as I would never want them to.

   Cade sat beside me, silent in the fading light of what had been a beautiful early summer day. We did not speak as an hour, and then two, slipped by. The sunset lit up the sky with a myriad of beautiful colors that should have been uplifting, but somehow only made me sadder. My father would never see such a beautiful sunset again. Ishould not be here to see it, but I was.

   Seeming to sense my growing distress, Cade’s long fingers slid into mine. His strong, young hand clasped upon mine, holding me tight. Something began to ease inside of me. I felt at home, I did not feel so ashamed and devastated with him beside me, holding me. For the first time in days I did not feel guilty, was not consumed by self-hatred, did not close my eyes and see the broken body of my father. The nightmares that caused me to wake, screaming soundlessly every night, did not even seem so bad at the moment. With him holding my hand I did not feel like I was going to fall apart, shattering like a dropped piece of glass if I moved the wrong way. For the first time, I almost felt a small measure of peace again.

   “It’s ok to cry.” His voice was soft as the remains of the sun slipped over the horizon.

   And for the first and last time, I did. I did not sob loudly, did not fall completely apart. Did not scream and rail against the heavens, or fate, as I had feared every second of the past few days I would. Instead I wept silently as all the pain and shame poured steadily from me. He wrapped his arm around me, pulling me against his side. Cradling my head gently he did not tell me to stop, did not tell me that it would all be alright, did not offer me the same false words that everyone else had over the past few days. He simply held and comforted me in a way that I had never been held, or comforted, before.

   It was dark before my tears finally subsided and I lay spent against him. I could feel the hard press of his ribs against my cheek; hear the hard knock of his heart. The crickets were out, an owl hooted somewhere in the distance, and though it was growing cooler neither of us moved. I needed him, needed his understanding, needed to know that I was not as hated as I felt. In those moments, I needed him more than I had ever needed anything in my life. I was not going to be the first one to pull away.

   It was another hour before my front door opened and light spilled across the large front porch. People had been steadily leaving all day, but no one had noticed us under the gentle branches of the willow tree. There were still a few cars in the drive, but I knew that it was not one of their owners stepping outside now.