I knew I’d write a book as soon as my son died. It didn’t come to me, an idea in the night. It was something I just knew. And I knew it would be a book of hope. In the years prior to his death, I had discovered hope in the way a drowning person discovers a life raft, and I wasn’t prepared to leg go of it now. For the first two years of writing, I had no idea how I’d make the book hopeful, but I always knew I would. I was committed to writing my way, word by word, from tragedy to hope so I could share that with others.

There were times I almost gave up, and I did pack it in a few times, twice with some sincerity. I had absolutely no understanding of what a long, difficult, heart-rending, frustrating, humility-building, fulfilling, life-changing, love-filled process it would be…

“Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!” they said.

That first year, and second, I heard those heartfelt wishes from my family and friends, knowing they had the best of intentions. I’d smile and say, “Thanks, you too.” That’s all I could manage. I couldn’t even say the words “merry” or “happy” without choking on them.

As a newly grieving mom, those best wishes didn’t make me feel merry or happy. They made me feel unsupported and misunderstood. Invisible, even…

It took me almost five years to be able to eat gnocchi again; as much as I loved it, it made my heart sad to even see it on a menu. Sometimes, I avoided looking at the whole page that held the word “gnocchi” because I just couldn’t bear it. Other times, I was composed enough to quickly skip past the offending word, nestled as it was between pappardelle and radiatore. It wasn’t a huge loss, really. I rarely ordered gnocchi from a restaurant anyway. I never understood who would want a peasant’s potato pasta when there were duck or seafood options.

Of course, that was part of the appeal for my son, Tristan…