An Unfamiliar Face

This week, I had to share heartbreaking news with my boys: two children from their school were tragically killed in a car accident. It was a harsh introduction to a part of life my husband and I had hoped to shield them from for as long as possible. But at just 10 and 7 years old, they sadly had to experience the loss of peers.

Before I even shared the news, I learned that the younger child who passed was a friend of my son, Kamden. A friend who filled the seat next to him every day in afterschool study hall. A friend who shared his snacks (except for the cookies—those were his favorite) as they talked about the little things seven-year-old boys find important. A friendship just blossoming—full of potential.

And then, only an hour after Kam said goodbye to him for the day, he was gone. His beautiful life taken far sooner than we can comprehend here on Earth.

As a mother, I’ve grown in ways I wish I hadn’t these past few days. I’ve had to figure out how to tell my children about tragedy just before we left for school, only to shield them from hearing it in the hallways. I’ve had to wrestle with how many questions to ask, how much space to give, and how to meet each of my boys where they are—because their grief looks different, their relationships were different, and their hearts are processing in different ways.

That first day, my husband and I tried to offer a moment of joy by taking them to their favorite ice cream shop after school. For a little while, it was just about deciding flavors, cones or dishes, and how many scoops—the simple things.

But as we sat down, Kam looked up at me and asked if there would be a funeral for his friend. I told him I imagined there would be and asked if he wanted to go. His answer broke me: “I don’t know if I can… I don’t know his parents. I don’t have their permission.”

In that moment, I realized I was no longer navigating the simple rules of a friend’s birthday party—I was now trying to help my child understand the structure of a friend’s funeral. And my heart shattered again.

But as I thought more about this, I realized the power of Kam’s presence at the funeral. To this child’s family, he may be an unfamiliar face, a name they might have heard once, but never paired with a meeting. Yet Kam is part of their son’s story—one of the countless connections, the everyday friendships and bonds created at school that parents don’t always see.

When Kam attends the service, his unfamiliar face will join a sea of both familiar and unfamiliar ones. A crowd that will silently testify to the reach of their children’s lives. A reminder that their children’s love and laughter touched more kids than they ever knew. A symbol that in their short years, they left an impact far beyond playdates and birthday party guest lists.

Kam’s friendship was important—to him, and to the boy he misses. And so we will honor it. When the funeral is planned, Kam will attend—even without knowing his parents or having their permission. He will sit among many faces, each one a living symbol of how deeply two young lives touched this world in the brief time they were given.