The Hardest Question to Answer

I can’t remember who asked the question,?but the situation itself sticks in my mind.?

“How many kids do you have, Ed?”

I told them three. Three kids.?

A colleague started laughing.?

“Ed… You have four kids! Remember?! Charlie!?”

It was funny. Absent-minded Ed, forgot about his fourth kid.

Now, though, that innocuous question sits differently.?

“How many kids do you have, Ed?”

I don’t always know how to answer it, and often I get angry with myself.

I have six kids. One of them, my beautiful baby William Rhys, died.??

At 7lbs 3oz, he was our lightest baby, but the one who weighs heaviest in our hearts.?

At 22 inches, he was our longest baby, but the one who was with us for the shortest time.?

I never want to forget him, and it kills me to think that he could ever be forgotten. But sometimes, when that question comes at me, I say five instead of six. And now, when I get that question wrong - I’m no longer able to laugh at absent-minded Ed - I feel terrible afterwards.?

The reason? People’s reactions.?

“Six? I thought you had five!?”

“We had a son, he died.”

“Oh.”

Silence.?

When the talk is of a small variety, telling the truth can sometimes be a conversation killer.

Recently, I’ve started trying different things, like saying “at home”

“How many kids do you have, Ed?”

“I’ve got five at home.”

This doesn’t always work. Once, I used that reply and someone started laughing… “At home!? What, have you got a secret family elsewhere!? Ed, are you keeping a secret from us!? Hahah!”

The saddest part was that they knew about William, but had obviously forgotten.?

In many ways, this sums up my life with my dead boy. Sometimes even the smallest, most innocuous things are so so tough. Sometimes these small barely perceptible betrayals - like not mentioning him when I’m telling people about my kids - hurt so much.?