The church was quiet, save for the soft hum of whispered prayers and the occasional shuffle of feet. Sunlight streamed through stained glass, painting the pews with colors too bright for such a somber day. At the front, surrounded by flowers and sorrow, lay a small white coffin.

Peter, just five years old, sat on the edge of a chair. His feet dangled, unable to reach the floor. He clutched a worn teddy bear, its fur matted from years of comfort. The adults around him spoke in hushed tones, their eyes red, their faces drawn. But Peter’s gaze never left the coffin.

He leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why can’t I sleep with Mommy?”

No one answered at first. The question hung in the air, raw and aching. Henry, his aunt, felt her heart twist. She knelt beside him, searching for words that might soothe, but found none.

Outside, the world carried on. But inside the church, time seemed to stand still, caught in the gravity of a child’s grief.

Peter had always slept with his mother. Every night, he would crawl into her bed, nestling against her warmth. She would stroke his hair, humming lullabies until his eyes grew heavy. It was their ritual, their fortress against the dark.

But now, everything had changed.

Days earlier, Peter’s mother had gone to the hospital to bring his baby brother into the world. Peter remembered her smile, her promise that she would be home soon. He remembered the way she kissed his forehead, her eyes shining with hope.

But she didn’t come back.

Instead, Henry arrived, her face pale and tight. She tried to explain, but Peter only understood pieces—something about the baby, something about Mommy being very tired. He waited for her to return, but each day felt longer than the last.

On the morning of the funeral, Peter woke to the sound of voices. He followed them to the living room, where a small group had gathered. They spoke softly, glancing at him with pity. Peter didn’t want their pity. He wanted his mother.

At the church, Peter watched as the adults wept. He didn’t understand why everyone was so sad. He climbed onto a chair, peering into the coffin. His mother looked peaceful, her hands folded over her chest. Peter reached out, his fingers brushing the cool wood.

Henry approached, kneeling beside him. “Peter,” she whispered, “do you want to talk?”

Peter looked up, his eyes wide and searching. “Why can’t I sleep with Mommy?”

Henry’s throat tightened. She blinked back tears, struggling to find words. “Mommy… Mommy has to rest now, sweetheart. She’s very tired.”

Peter frowned. “I’m tired too. Can I rest with her?”

Henry pulled him close, silent tears streaking her cheeks. “Not right now, Peter. But she loves you very much.”

Peter nodded, but the answer didn’t satisfy him. He climbed down, sitting quietly beside the coffin. The adults watched, their hearts breaking.

The night before the funeral, Peter refused to sleep in his own bed. He dragged a chair into the parlor, arranging it beside the coffin. Henry found him there, curled up with his teddy bear, eyes wide open.

“Peter, you should come to bed,” she said softly.

He shook his head. “I want to stay with Mommy.”

Henry knelt beside him, brushing his hair from his face. “It’s late, sweetheart. You need sleep.”

Peter looked at her, his voice trembling. “If I sleep here, maybe Mommy will wake up.”

Henry felt her resolve crumble. She gathered him into her arms, holding him close. “I wish she could, Peter. I really do.”

They sat together in the dim light, surrounded by silence. Henry remembered the day Peter was born, the way his mother had glowed with joy. She had been so brave, so full of love.

Now, Henry was the one left to pick up the pieces.

As the funeral approached, Peter’s memories flooded him. He remembered his mother’s laughter, the way she danced in the kitchen, her hands covered in flour. He remembered her stories, her songs, the way she made every day feel like an adventure.

He remembered the day she went to the hospital. She had promised him a new brother, someone to play with. Peter had been excited, imagining games and secrets shared between siblings.

But when Henry returned, she brought only sadness.

Peter tried to understand. He asked questions, but the answers were always the same—Mommy was tired, Mommy had to rest. Peter didn’t want her to rest. He wanted her to come back.

At the funeral, Peter watched as people came and went. They offered condolences, hugs, and whispered prayers. But none of it brought his mother back.

As the service ended, Peter climbed onto a chair, looking into the coffin one last time. He reached out, his fingers trembling.

“Mommy,” he whispered, “can you hear me?”

The room was silent. Henry stood nearby, her heart aching.

Peter sat quietly, his question unanswered.

In the days that followed, Peter’s baby brother, Khayne, fought for his life in the hospital. Henry visited every day, bringing updates and hope. Peter asked about him, wanting to know when he could meet his brother.

Henry smiled, though her eyes were tired. “He’s very strong, Peter. Just like you.”

Peter nodded, clutching his teddy bear. He wondered if Khayne missed Mommy too.

One afternoon, Henry brought Peter to the hospital. He peered into the incubator, watching his brother breathe. Khayne was so small, so fragile. Peter reached out, pressing his hand against the glass.

“Hi, Khayne,” he whispered. “I’m your big brother.”

Henry smiled, tears in her eyes. She saw the hope in Peter’s gaze, the love that survived even in the face of loss.

On the night before the funeral, Peter did something unexpected. He dragged chairs from every room, arranging them in a circle around his mother’s coffin. He placed his teddy bear in the center, then lay down inside the circle.

Henry found him there, asleep among the chairs.

She knelt beside him, tears streaming down her face. “Peter, why did you do this?”

Peter stirred, rubbing his eyes. “I want to keep Mommy safe. If I make a circle, maybe she won’t be lonely.”

Henry hugged him tightly, overwhelmed by his innocence. “You’re so brave, Peter.”

Peter looked up, his eyes shining. “Will Mommy come back tomorrow?”

Henry shook her head, her voice gentle. “She can’t, sweetheart. But she’ll always be with you—in your heart.”

Peter nodded, curling up beside his teddy bear. He closed his eyes, dreaming of a world where his mother was still there.

After the funeral, the house felt empty. Peter wandered from room to room, searching for traces of his mother. He found her perfume on the dresser, her favorite mug in the kitchen, her shoes by the door.

Henry watched him, her heart heavy. She tried to fill the silence with stories, songs, and laughter, but nothing could replace what was lost.

One evening, Peter sat by the window, watching the stars. Henry joined him, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders.

“Do you think Mommy can see me?” he asked.

Henry smiled, brushing his hair back. “I think she watches you every night.”

Peter looked up, hope flickering in his eyes. “If I talk to her, will she hear me?”

Henry nodded. “Always.”

Peter closed his eyes, whispering into the night. “Goodnight, Mommy. I love you.”

Peter’s question lingered, haunting the family.

One afternoon, Henry sat with her husband, Mark, discussing how to help Peter heal.

“He keeps asking why he can’t sleep with her,” Henry said, her voice breaking. “How do I explain something so final?”

Mark squeezed her hand. “Maybe we don’t have to explain. Maybe we just have to listen.”

Henry nodded, tears in her eyes. She resolved to be there for Peter, to answer his questions with love, even when the answers were impossible.

That night, Henry found Peter sitting on the floor, surrounded by his mother’s things.

She sat beside him, pulling him into her lap. “Peter, do you want to talk about Mommy?”

Peter nodded, his voice small. “I miss her.”

Henry stroked his hair, holding him close. “I miss her too, sweetheart.”

Peter looked up, his eyes searching. “Will I ever see her again?”

Henry hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “One day, maybe. But until then, she’s always with you—in your memories, in your heart.”

Peter nodded, silent tears streaming down his face. “I want to sleep with her.”

Henry hugged him tightly. “She would want you to sleep safe and warm, Peter. She loves you so much.”

Peter clung to her, his grief raw and unfiltered. Henry rocked him gently, whispering lullabies into the night.

Slowly, Peter began to heal. He visited his baby brother every day, telling him stories about their mother. He drew pictures, sang songs, and built forts in the living room.

Henry encouraged him, celebrating every step forward. She watched as Peter found strength in his memories, resilience in his love.

One day, Peter asked if he could plant a garden for his mother. Henry agreed, and together they dug in the dirt, planting flowers that would bloom each spring.

“Mommy would love these,” Peter said, smiling.

Henry nodded, tears in her eyes. “She would be so proud of you.”

But grief is not a straight path. Some nights, Peter woke crying, calling for his mother. Henry would rush to his side, holding him until he calmed.

One night, Peter asked again, his voice trembling. “Why can’t I sleep with Mommy?”

Henry closed her eyes, searching for strength. “Because Mommy has to rest now, Peter. She’s watching over you from heaven.”

Peter sniffled, clutching his teddy bear. “Will she come back?”

Henry hugged him close. “She’s with you, always. In your heart, in your dreams.”

Peter nodded, drifting back to sleep.

Months passed. Khayne grew stronger, finally coming home from the hospital. Peter greeted him with joy, promising to protect him always.

Together, they played in the garden, chasing butterflies and laughing under the sun. Henry watched, her heart swelling with pride.

One afternoon, Peter smiled—a real, unguarded smile. Henry caught it, her own tears falling.

“You’re so brave, Peter,” she whispered.

Peter grinned, hugging his brother. “Mommy would want us to be happy.”

Henry nodded, knowing that healing had begun.

On Peter’s sixth birthday, Henry gave him a box filled with memories—photos, letters, and keepsakes from his mother. Peter spent hours looking through them, asking questions, sharing stories.

He placed the box beside his bed, a tangible link to the love he had lost.

That night, he whispered to the box, “Goodnight, Mommy. I love you.”

Henry listened from the doorway, her heart full of hope.

Years passed. Peter grew, his memories of his mother fading but never forgotten. He learned to live with his grief, to find joy in the world around him.

One evening, he sat with Khayne in the garden, watching the stars.

“Do you remember Mommy?” Khayne asked.

Peter nodded, smiling. “Every day.”

They sat together, surrounded by flowers, their hearts full of love.

Henry watched from the porch, knowing that the circle of chairs had become a circle of healing—a testament to the strength of a child, the power of love, and the hope that endures even in the darkest night.

Peter never stopped missing his mother. But he learned that love does not end with loss. It lives on—in memories, in laughter, in the bonds we share.

And every night, as he drifted to sleep, he whispered the question that had once haunted him—no longer with pain, but with hope.

“Goodnight, Mommy. I love you.”

And somewhere, in the quiet of the night, he knew she answered.