Three Years After My Son Died, His Apartment Was Full of Strangers

The dim light was on, shadows shifting behind the walls.

I had just stepped out of the elevator when I spotted red New Year's wreaths on the door of my son's wedding apartment.

I slid my key in and turned it twice. The lock didn't budge.

Before I could knock, a child burst through the door and nearly knocked me over.

My son had been dead for three years. His apartment should have been empty.

From the kitchen came a woman's voice: "Don't go outside! Call your dad and tell him to come home for dinner."

The voice was bright and clear. The smell of a home-cooked meal filled the air.

His dad? I leaned toward the doorway.

When no one responded, the woman called out again: "Mom, call Julius. He should be here tonight eating with me and Myron James."

I fumbled and knocked a glass ornament off the entryway shelf. It shattered against the floor.

My husband's name was also Julius James.

……

My car was parked below the Newtide Gardens building.

Unit 601 in the west wing was my son's wedding apartment.

Three years ago, my son had died in an accident.

When I missed him, I would drive here and sit in the car downstairs.

But I never went up.

Today, I had just returned from my hometown after holding my son's third anniversary memorial. As always, I drove to the building.

Maybe it was the darkness, or maybe I was exhausted from the long drive, but my eyes seemed to be playing tricks on me. I could see a light on in 601.

I got out of the car and rubbed my eyes, counting the floors one by one.

There was no mistake. Unit 601. My son's wedding apartment. Not only were the lights on—there were people moving around inside.

Something was wrong.

After my son's death, the apartment had been sealed up.

Could it be burglars?

My heart hammered as I hurried into the elevator.

The moment I stepped out, the red New Year's wreaths on the door stung my eyes.

I dug out my key, shoved it into the lock, and twisted twice.

It wouldn't turn.

Then came a click. The lock opened from the inside.

A boy burst out of the apartment, nearly bowling me over where I stood in the doorway.

From the kitchen: "Don't go outside! Call your dad and tell him to come home for dinner."

The woman's voice was bright and clear. The smell of cooking filled my son's wedding apartment.

I stood in the doorway and looked around.

The furniture wasn't new. From the look of things, people had been living in my son's apartment for quite some time.

The woman didn't get a response. She called out again: "Mom, call Julius. He should be here tonight eating with me and Myron."

The name hit me like a jolt.

I fumbled the glass ornament on the entryway shelf. It slipped from my fingers and shattered against the tile, the sound cutting through the apartment.

An older woman emerged from the second bedroom. She didn't look much older than me.

"Myron, what have you broken now? Always getting into trouble."

The moment she saw me standing in the doorway, she froze.

She recognized me. That much was obvious.

"Mom, Myron's still little. Don't be so hard on him." The younger woman came out of the kitchen carrying dishes. She glanced at me. "Mom, who's this? A friend of yours?"

The older woman bit her lip and pulled the younger one into the kitchen.

The door slammed shut behind them.

Even with their voices lowered, I could still hear.

"How did she find this place?"

"Call Julius. Now."

The boy who had run out earlier came bouncing back, hopping up the hallway.

His eyes, his brow, the shape of his face. He looked so much like my son, Louis James.

If Louis were still alive, I would have wondered if this child was my grandson.

"Who are you? I don't know you." The boy stared up at me. "Mommy, there's a stranger in our house!"

His voice was small and piping.

"This is my son's apartment." I kept my voice steady.

The kitchen door flew open. The woman rushed out and pulled the child behind her.

She said nothing. She just stared at me, eyes locked on mine.

Her gaze was sharp with suspicion, guarding her territory against an uninvited intruder.

I looked past her. Above the sofa hung a photograph.

A family portrait. The older woman sat in the center, holding a baby.