When the Question Cuts Too Deep

How to answer a question so simple and innocent, yet the truth felt so complex and crushing?

He smiled through the screen - familiar, easygoing, maybe a little more gray in the hair, a little more tired in the eyes, but otherwise the same man I hadn’t spoken to in years. The kind of colleague you once shared project deadlines and lukewarm coffee with, then drifted away from without noticing.

We were catching up over a video call. He had reached out the week before, asking if I’d be open for a quick chat. Something about exploring new career opportunities and “reconnecting with good people.” I hesitated. I wasn’t sure I was one of those good people anymore - not since my world had collapsed under the weight of something unthinkable. But I said yes. Not because I am terrible with saying “no”, but because I still believe in being kind.

The call started with the usual small talk: work, weather, old memories, mutual connections. Then he smiled a little wider, leaned forward like he was about to share a fond thought, and asked:

“How’s your son doing? He should be what, 14, 15 now?”

And everything stopped.

I froze. Not dramatically, just… completely. My face stayed neutral, but I could feel the blood drain from it. My chest tightened around a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Time, suddenly, started pressing down hard.

He didn’t know. Of course he didn’t. Why would he? We hadn’t spoken in years. He remembered the version of me who talked about my son’s soccer games and piano recitals. He remembered him alive, vibrant. So that’s the question he asked, so simple, so innocent, yet the truth felt so complex, so crushing now. My first instinct was to protect him from the horror, and the awkwardness that would follow, to protect myself and dodge the raw wound altogether.

I sat there, fingers hovering over the keyboard, a silent scream echoing in the hollow space. I was trying to find words, the right words. What do you say when someone asks about your child without knowing that cancer took him from you just a few months ago? That you held him in your arms while machines beeped and monitors flatlined? That you still wake up reaching for sounds that aren’t there?

He noticed. You could see the shift in his face - the casual grin faltering just slightly, a hint of confusion creasing his brow.

And then I realized - this is part of grief, too. This moment. The stunned silence. The impossible reply. If I don’t speak the truth, I help keep the illusion alive - that grief should stay hidden, that loss should be edited out of casual conversation.

I cleared my throat. I looked away, and then looked back at the screen.

“He… he actually passed away earlier this year,” I said, quietly. “We lost him to cancer… Ah.. he would be 16 now.”

There was no dramatic swell of music, no cinematic fade. Just his face, stunned, the way people get when they realize they’ve stepped into a sacred ground without knowing.

“Oh god… I… I didn’t know. I’m so, so sorry.”

I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to say more.

He apologized again. Offered condolences. Kindly. Sincerely. His voice thickened, and I heard his own tears behind the words. It was a small comfort to know that he cared, but it didn’t ease the pain. It didn’t change the fact that I am a mother learning to live without her child, trying to navigate a world that hadn’t stopped for me.

He didn’t ask for details. He gave the moment to breathe. And then, carefully, we shifted the conversation. Talked about his job hunt. About industries and skillsets and possible introductions. I gave him whatever help I could. I still had that muscle memory, to be useful, to be helpful in any way I can, even when everything hurts.

But after we hung up, I sat in the quiet for a long time.

Grief on a video call is like grief in a glass box. You’re visible, exposed, but still somehow unreachable. There’s nowhere to hide, yet no one can truly enter your space. You perform composure in real-time. You try not to let your voice catch. You try not to let your tear flow. You try to remember how to be someone other than a grieving mother for just 30 minutes.

---

This kind of question, this moment of grief, though, wasn’t the only one that has made me question how to navigate this new life. I’ve had many.

There was that moment when I had to fill out a form, something that should be so simple and ordinary but became a painful reminder of my new reality. “Number of children under 18 in the household?” I had to leave the space blank. I couldn’t fill it in. How do you quantify loss in a box on a form? How do you explain that there is no one to fill that spot anymore? That your beloved child is gone? But I had to go back to fill the space with the number “0”, otherwise it wouldn’t allow me to move forward with the form.

These moments reminded me of something I keep learning: Grief doesn’t choose an occasion or follow a schedule. It doesn’t respect the green light on your MS Teams status. It arrives whenever it wants, in the middle of a warm greeting, a kind smile, an innocent form.

And also, people mean well. But they also live in versions of your life that are long gone. When they speak, they speak to the you they remember - not the one left standing in the ruins. And you, with all your broken pieces, must decide how much of the truth to offer. Sometimes you give them just the facts. Sometimes you give them nothing at all. And sometimes, if you can bear it, you give them the silence first, the pause that says: I wasn’t ready for that question. But I’ll try to answer anyway.

Today, as I was writing this, I just finished listening to Kate Bowler ‘s newest Podcast. Her words summarized well: “We might not get to choose what happens to us, but we do get to choose what we do with our pain.”

And that is its own kind of grace.