Dear Henry...

Yes, friends, this is a different kind of letter today.

My friend Elizabeth's son Henry died in 2022. He was 18. She writes so beautifully about him, and about other grieving parents, on her Substack Channeling Grief .

Today, on Bereaved Mother’s Day, we’re doing something special: we wrote letters for each other’s children.

You can head over to her page to read what she wrote about William. And here, below, I’m sharing more about her beloved Henry.

Thank you for being here. For witnessing our grief, for holding space for our boys.

xx

__________________________________________________

Dear Henry,

I didn’t know you.
But I know your mom.
And I know what it means to love a child who isn’t here.

She writes about who you were—
an anxious kid,
a kid with ADHD,
a kid who had to work to find his footing.

And then she shows us how you did.

How you found something steady in cross-country.
How you found your voice in drama and debate.
How you built friendships not by being the loudest,
but by listening.

That detail stays with me.
Because it tells me something about you—
even if I never met you.

You were paying attention.
You were becoming.

You had just arrived at the beginning of your life.

Hiking with other freshmen.
Meeting new friends.
Stepping into something that was yours.

Ready.

And your mom—
she felt all of that when she hugged you goodbye.

Her arms around your middle.
Her cheek pressed to your chest.
Her eyes closed.

Holding every version of you at once.

And then she let you go.

Not knowing it was the last time.

Most mothers don’t think about that when we say goodbye.
We assume there will be another hug, another moment.

Most mothers get to see their kids again.

She didn’t.
I didn’t either.

I didn’t know you, Henry.
But I know that moment.

I find myself thinking about you through her—
through the way she writes about you,
the stories she tells,
the ache of keeping you here so others, like me, can know you—
and the ache of you not being here, too.

Like that second Thanksgiving after you died.
The one with the flattened turkey.

I can picture it so well.

I wonder what you would have thought, watching your brother and your grandma flatten the turkey that second Thanksgiving after you died.

Who took your spot in the kitchen.
Who did the thing you would have done without being asked.
What felt different, even if no one could quite name it.

I imagine the noise of it—
the pans, the conversation, the movement—
and underneath it, that quiet awareness:

you’re not here.

It’s such a small thing.
And somehow, it’s everything.

The kind of moment where your absence is loud, even when no one says it out loud.

I see how grief lives there—
in kitchens, in small decisions,
in who is and isn’t standing at the counter.

Your mom lets us see those moments.

And she doesn’t just tell your story.
Or her story.

She tells others’ stories, too.

Henry, your mom channels her grief for you into something extraordinary.

She creates space.
Real space.

The kind that is so hard to find after child loss—
because the truth is, there are so many places where grief is not welcome.
Where people don’t want to hear about dead kids.
Where your name would make the room go quiet in the wrong way.

But your mom doesn’t let that happen.

Through her writing, through Channeling Grief,
through the way she sits with other parents and lets them speak freely—
she is carving out places where grief can exist as it is.

Messy.
Enduring.
Full of love.

She tells other people’s stories.
And I have to believe that in doing that,
she is also tending to her own.

That this is part of how she keeps you close.

Because I recognize it.

It’s what I do, too.

I create space for my son, William, everywhere I go.

That’s how we keep parenting you.

It’s different now.

We don’t get to tuck you in.
We don’t get to make your favorite meal before a big day.
We don’t get to ask how your classes are going or if you need anything from home.

So we do it another way.

We say your names.
We tell your stories.
We light candles.
We build things in your honor.
We make sure the world knows you were here.

Your mom does this so beautifully, Henry.

In the way she listens.
In the way she gathers people.
In the way she refuses to let your life be reduced to the way you died.

You would be so proud of her.

The way I know William is proud of me.

And I have this feeling—
maybe it’s just something I need to believe—

but I don’t think you’re alone wherever you are.

I think you’ve found each other.

All of you.
The kids who left too soon.

Because that’s what we do down here.

We find each other.
The bereaved parents.

We didn’t ask to be here,
but we recognize each other immediately.

We hold each other up.
We say each other’s children’s names.
We make sure they are remembered.

So it makes sense to me that you would do the same.

If you see William, will you say hi for me?

Love,
Susie

Henry