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I stood on the beach, gazing out over the ocean.

Ha. That sentence. It could mean anything. To that man over there, huddled against the biting wind, embracing a woman, it is full of beginnings. I see only the end.

I remember one time, when Kate was in remission, when we took the kids here. Jesse, spindly and skinny, like an insect, played tag with the waves. Whenever he fell, Brian would catch him. I wonder if Jesse was ever afraid, ever scared that the ocean would leap forward, and swallow him up. Or, if he was sure, beyond all doubt, that no matter what the water did, no matter what the world threw at him, his father would always catch him.

I realize that we pretty much abandoned Jesse. It wasn't as though we planned to. We didn't want to give up on our only son, but it just happened. That's what tragedy does to a family. It pushes and shoves, fills up all the little cracks, until there's no room for anything else.

That day at the beach, Anna and Kate played next to Jesse, mirror images as they danced in the sun, droplets of water hanging in their hair like diamonds, sparkling in the sun.

I didn't see how it started, but I was terrified by how it nearly ended.

I suppose Kate pushed Anna first. She was always the more assertive one, Anna more easy-going.

Anyway, somehow or another, Anna ended up in the water. She was never a strong swimmer, and at age four, she didn't stand a chance.

I remember seeing her fall back, and the ocean leap up and swallow my little girl, greedily pulling her away.

I remember my first thought at seeing Anna swept away: If she dies, who will save Kate?

Then my second thought: Oh my God, my daughter!

My feelings were lost in the tizzy of the next few hours, pulling Anna from the water and comforting her, rubbing her back and easing her gulping sobs.

Only later that night, lying in bed with Brian snoring gently beside did it come to me. I hadn't thought of Anna, of her life; only of Kate.

And now, ironically, the child who I had been sure of, the one who was always there, had been swept away from me.

I gazed out over the ocean, the gray water, like steel, folding in on itself, again and again, a never-ending pattern.

What do you do when your world falls to pieces, when your security is ripped out from under you? When the entire world as you know it collapses around you, leaving you to pick up the shattered pieces, and try to fit them back together, when you already know there's something missing?

The woman and man had left, and I was alone on the beach. I was alone always, even at home. Even surrounded by people, I was still alone. I was alone inside myself.

I turned and trekked back through the white sand. My hands shook as I pulled the car door shut, and my eyes stung with unspent tears.

The road blurred as I drove, my tears finally betraying me, and I pulled over.

Hunched over the steering wheel, I cried. I cried for Anna, for me. I cried for Jesse, and Brian, and Kate.

I cried and cried and cried, and when I thought I was done, I cried some more. Tears ran down my cheeks and my face was stiff with salt.

My phone rang in my purse. I fumbled with the strap, my eyes still blurred by tears, and pulled out my phone.

"H—hello?" I whispered, my voice hoarse.

"Sara?" came Brian's panicked voice, "Sara! Where are you? We were so worried. I was so worried! Are you alright?"

"No." I said, "I'll be home in ten minutes."

Brian said goodbye, and hung up.

This time, as I drove, I did not cry. I did not think of the sad things, or the loss. I did not think at all.

Rain began to beat down on the windshield, and thunder shook the world.

I could feel the tears, the sadness, lurking there at the edge of my awareness, but I pushed them back, and eventually I could not feel them any longer.

I pulled into the driveway, the tires crunching on gravel. I sat in the car for a while, trying to hold onto my delicate composure.

"Sara!" Brian sighed when I entered the living room. He rose from the couch and gathered me in his strong arms. And I fell apart again.

"B—Brian! Oh, Brian she's gone!" I sobbed, and he held me.

"I know, Sara, I know," Brian murmured, and I could hear the tears in his voice as well. They were like flu in this family. You never knew when they would pop up, and when they did, they were highly contagious.

We stood there like that, supporting each other. It was only when the screen door slammed, Jesse coming in from the backyard, droplets of rain glistening in his dark hair, that we broke apart, wiping away tears.

"Mom, when's—" he broke off, seeing the tear stains on our cheeks, the redness of our eyes.

I looked at him, really looked at my son, for the first time in so long.

Jesse had always looked more like me, while Kate took after Brian. We were both skinny and dark. We were both on the tall side.

But when I really looked at my son, I realized I did not know him at all. I did not know his face, his eyes. Who was this boy—more of a man now—standing in my living room? What had happened to the little boy who had tugged my hand, beckoning me to see the picture he'd drawn? Had it really been the same child who had called to me in the night? Where had the time gone? Where had he gone?

When had my son stopped being my son?

"Jesse…" I said softly.

"Mom," he replied, as a single tear rolled down his cheek.

Jesse stepped forward, and for the first time in forever, I took him in my arms. He was now taller than me, I realized. He was wiry and strong.

"Mom," he said again. "Mom, I've missed you." I knew he didn't mean my little day trip, and I sighed.

"I missed you too, Jess."

Kate came down the stairs, and in my mind, I almost laughed at the irony. We'd all been avoiding each other, in a way. We didn't go out of our way to talk to each other. We didn't stop, and initiate a conversation, just to talk. We'd each been existing in our own little bubble, and now here we were, all together.

Kate said nothing, but came over, and wrapped her arms around Jesse and me.

I felt Brian place his arms around us, and we stood there, a group hug, a family.

A broken, shattered, worn, uneven, imperfect family.

But still a family.