My 5 y.o. son d!ed in 2020. My good friend kept telling me, “You need to move on,”

My son’s photos covered every inch of her walls.

Some of them, I didn’t even remember sharing with her.

Then, to my utter disbelief, I spotted something even more unsettling—his clothes, neatly folded on her sofa, alongside a box filled with his shoes and socks.

A chill ran down my spine. The entire scene felt disturbingly eerie.

Trying to keep my voice steady, I asked her how she had gotten them.

Without hesitation, she said my husband had given them to her.

It was true—we had made the difficult decision to pack away my son’s belongings as part of our healing process. But never in my worst nightmares did I imagine my husband would give them to her.

My hands began to tremble.

I knew she had loved my son deeply—she had longed for a child of her own for years—but this felt like something far beyond grief. It felt like an obsession.

Without saying another word, I grabbed the box and walked out.

That was the last time I ever saw her.