The way a mother grieves:
Maryse was torn. A part of her heart was ripped from the seams. She would never again see him asleep on the couch glasses askew. Never again see his face light up on Christmas morning. Never again hold him in her arms and wipe his tears. Never will she again full heartily laugh. Not as long as her son was dead.
The way a father grieves:
Robert was lost. Unsure of where to go. His boy was going to start training. He was going to be a great Shadow hunter, best of his age. He was going to study hard and survive. Robert longed for the moments that would never come. His son would never meet the right girl; never get down on one knee. His son would never nervously wait at the altar, or wordlessly hold his newborn child in his arms. His son would never grow up. And for that Robert would always be lost.
The way a brother grieves:
Alec speechless. He had so many words to say to the boy before. He always dismissed him, told him it was "grown-up stuff." And now Alec's brother would never grow up. Alec couldn't say a word now; all he could do was stare down at his lifeless brother and think of what he could have done. Alec could've stayed, could've been there for him. But it was to late for "could haves." Alec's brother could have lived, but he didn't. And Alec would never hate fate more then he did now.
The way a sister grieves:
Isabelle was destroyed. She was the one who left her brother, left him alone to save himself. She dismissed his worries as nothing more then childish paranoia. But he had been right. About the demon tower, about Sebastian, about everything. And it was Isabelle's fault for not listening. She left the room for a minute, but in one minute, Isabelle's nine-year-old brother was murdered. His own sister left Max Lightwood alone with Sebastian Verlac. And because of that, Isabelle would never forgive herself