The drive home from the cemetery was quiet. Carl didn't say a word and even Judith was quiet, occasionally humming to herself in the backseat.

I looked over at Carl again, worried.

"Dad, I'm fine," he said, for once sounding more tired than annoyed.

I turned my eyes back to the road. Sometimes I forget how young he is, what it must be like for him.

Today was the first time we've been back to visit, all three of us together, since the funeral. I visited by myself often in the early days, after it all happened.

Sometimes I would sit in the grass and talk to her and, sometimes, I swore I could hear her answer, as clear as if she was sitting beside me. Sometimes I would bring flowers. Some days I came simply to take a deep breath and rest my hand on her gravestone for a moment before driving on to the station and beginning my day.

After a few months, though, my visits became less frequent. I had Judith to care for, and it was easy to let my days revolve around her. There was a certain kind of blessing in being busy with work, making sure Carl is fed, clothed, and at the bus stop on time, and taking care of a newborn. If I'm exhausted at the end of every day, there's less time to think about the dark things.

Today was the first day that Carl agreed to come with me. It's the one year anniversary, so I didn't give him much of a choice. We brought a big bouquet of flowers and one of those little signs that spelled 'MOM' in plastic roses.

When we got home Carl went straight to his room and closed the door. I waited to hear the familiar rumble of his stereo but tonight the house was quiet. I fed Judith and cleaned up the kitchen slowly.

It was getting late and Carl hadn't left his room so I walked up the steps and stood at his door, hand raised to nock. I paused and leaned closer to listen.

Carl had been quiet, stoic even, all day but now I could hear the tell-tale sounds of crying coming from his room. I swallowed, hesitating.

Part of me wanted to go in and talk to him, hold him close, comfort him somehow. But I didn't have an answer. I couldn't make it better. I've tried to get him to talk to me but it always goes the same way.

Maybe I can't answer his questions because they echo my own.

Would it have made a difference if I was there when it happened? What could I have done differently? Why couldn't I save her? Does it make any difference what I do?

I would do anything to fix this, all of it, to make him happy again. I took a deep breath and let it out, recalling something that the school counselor told me the first time I met with him.

'Boys always want to prove themselves to their fathers. That's how it is. Challenging your leadership, your decisions, it's just part of growing up. It's inevitable. Sometimes you have to let him figure things out for himself. He might act tough in front of you, but remember that he's still grieving. You have to let him process everything at his own pace.'

Mr. Dale, as the kids called him, had me come in for a meeting to talk about Carl shortly after Lori died. We've had many such discussions in the past year, some helpful and some not so much.

Carl has had to grow up so fast. I have to remember that he is still so young.

The last time I tried to comfort him, to tell him that everything would be okay, he looked at me with the coldest hatred. He blames me for so much.

I opened the door a crack and saw Carl sitting on his bed, absently flipping through a comic book.

"Are you hungry?" I asked.

"No," he said without looking up.

"There's dinner in the fridge if you want some later," I said dutifully.

I decided to let Carl be for the moment. I would see if he wanted to talk in the morning. Start over on a new day, after the pain of today has been dulled by a good night's sleep.

I walked back downstairs and picked Judith up from her play-pin. She blinked up at me sleepily.

"Time for bed, little one," I told her softly.

Judith rested her head on my shoulder and her little hand scrunched up my shirt. Tonight, instead of laying her down in her crib, I sat down in the old rocking chair in the corner. I couldn't bear to let go of her just yet.

After Lori died, I think I only kept going because of Judith. The first time I held her, she was so tiny. She was a little seed of warmth cradled against my chest, a small piece of hope in my arms. Sometimes, when I can't sleep, when I feel myself slipping back into the darkness, I come in here and hold Judith, rocking her slowly for hours.

Carl's not the only one who lost a mother. Judith will have to grow up never knowing her mother. Will that be easier for her, or worse?

When Carl turned one, we held a little birthday party for him. We posed for a picture, Lori and I on either side of Carl, a cupcake with a single candle in front of him, all of us smiling. We have a picture like that for each of his birthdays.

Judith deserves to be celebrated like that. But how can I celebrate Judith's birthday when the day she was born was also the worst day of my life? That's incredibly unfair to Judith, to let her grow up knowing that her father and her brother will never be happy on her birthday.

Maybe I could do something else instead. Maybe I could celebrate the first day that I held her, the day that she smiled up at me and saved my life.

I stifled a yawn. It was time to sleep. I got up from the rocking chair carefully and placed Judith in her crib.

"Good night, Judith," I whispered, before I turned on the nightlight and the baby monitor, "Happy Birthday."

I went down the hall to check on Carl. His light was still on but his room was quiet. I opened the door to see that he had fallen asleep.

Moving carefully, I gathered the comic books into a pile on his desk and pulled a blanket over him. I brushed his hair out of his eyes and kissed his forehead like I used to when he was small.

"I love you, Carl. We're going to be alright, I promise. We are," I said in a low voice.

I rubbed a hand over my face and went to turn out the lights.

"Dad?" a small voice stopped me.

"I'm here," I said.

"I love you too, Dad," Carl said.

I smiled for the first time that day.

"Good night, Carl," I said before flicking the light switch and closing the door gently.

As long as I have Carl and Judith, I'll be okay. This next year will be better than the last one. We'll make it through alright.