I didn't cry when I thought he was dead. I did think that, knew with every fiber of my being that my son was dead. I couldn't cry. People say I'm a hero for that. I took charge when Burt Hummel collapsed in on himself. I directed others even as Carol Hummel-Hudson screamed and clutched at air.
They looked at me in awe. I was the driving force behind the efforts to find them, to find what happened. I directed mourners and organized vigils. At night I tucked my little girl in and avoided answering questions about her brother. Not once did I shed a tear.
I had wondered about that. What kind of a person coldly directs calls when their child dies? Who can direct an entire city of volunteers without needing to break? I often wondered if some dark part of me was glad he was gone.
Maybe if I had been more like Carol Hummel I wouldn't be here right now. A phone call tilted my world three months ago, but didn't shatter it like so many others. Now I sit on my kitchen floor sobbing with a buzzing receiver in my hand. Noah's death barely fazed me but his survival left me adrift. I have nothing left.