How much information do we really need about the death of Emilie Kiser's son?

*trigger warning… this essay contains information about the drowning of a child*

I was sitting in my driveway about a week ago when I thought to myself, “what if I just deleted it?”

My finger hovered over the icon. I held it down until it wiggled and before I could fully think it through, I pressed the minus button in the left hand corner. Delete.

It was 6 PM on a Saturday, and I had just gotten back from running around the corner to pick up our dinner. It’s hard to describe the beauty of New England this time of year, but what I can say is that we have officially hit the point on the calendar where every crotchety New Englander becomes an amnesiac. The raw, bitter days of winter are a distant fever dream and the sun shines so brightly against green trees and azure lakes that it just makes sense the temperature clocks in at a perfect 75 degrees. You just want to rip a glass of chardonnay and a lobster roll and fall asleep while the sun is still setting.

On this particular night, parents were walking babies in strollers, kids were dinging bells on their bikes and you could see smiling dogs happily panting away on their evening walks. It was giving white picket fence energy. So perfectly East Coast casual that it hurt. I stole a glance toward the backseat where my son usually sits, all snuggled up in his Doona and tapping away at the light-up bar that keeps him occupied in the car. Except, he wasn’t in the backseat with me on this night. He was home with his Dad. Normally, this is an opportunity for me to blast some explicit tracks full blast with the sunroof down.

But on this night, I rode in silence.

I felt ill. Disoriented. Anxious. Sick to my stomach in waves of what felt like pangs of grief for someone else.