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.