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I thought I was hiding my depression well after my husband died. Turns out, my 6-year-old son saw everything I tried to keep hidden.

Tom passed away suddenly from an undiagnosed heart condition. One minute we were a normal family planning a camping trip, the next I was a 34-year-old widow with a kindergartener. The shock was indescribable.

For the first few months, I operated on autopilot. I got my son Ethan to school, went to work, made dinner, helped with homework, and put him to bed. Then I'd collapse, crying silently into pillows so he wouldn't hear me. I saved my breakdowns for shower time or late at night. During the day, I painted on a smile and told everyone I was "hanging in there."

The grief counselor the hospital recommended gave me a pamphlet about "shielding children from adult grief." It said children Ethan's age couldn't process death properly and needed stability above all else. So I followed the advice religiously. I only cried when he couldn't see or hear me. I kept his routine exactly the same. I answered his questions about Daddy with rehearsed, positive responses.

"Daddy is in heaven now." "Daddy loved you very much." "Daddy would be so proud of your drawing."

When Ethan asked harder questions—"Why did Daddy's heart stop?" or "When is Daddy coming back?"—I'd give the simplest answer possible, then quickly change the subject. The pamphlet said not to burden children with complex emotions they couldn't understand.

At night, after Ethan was asleep, I'd sit in the shower with the water running to mask my sobs. Sometimes I'd talk to Tom, telling him how much I missed him, how I didn't know how to do this alone. The shower became my grief space—the one place I could let my guard down completely.

I thought I was protecting Ethan from the worst of my grief. Children need stability, all the books said. So I maintained our routines, talked about Daddy in positive ways when Ethan brought him up, and kept moving forward one excruciating day at a time.

Six months after Tom died, I was helping Ethan clean his room when I found dozens of small paper cups hidden under his bed. Each one contained a tiny amount of water. It was odd, but kids do strange things, so I asked him about it casually.

"Those are for when you cry in the shower," he said matter-of-factly.

I was confused. "What do you mean, buddy?"

He looked at me with eyes far too wise for a six-year-old. "You cry in the shower so I won't know you're sad. But sometimes you need water when you cry a lot, and I don't want you to get thirsty. So I keep cups for you."

I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. All those times I thought I was protecting him by hiding in the bathroom with the shower running, he'd been sitting outside the door, listening to me sob, worrying that I might be thirsty.

"How did you know I cry in the shower?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Your eyes are red after, like mine when I cry about Daddy. And you stay in there a really long time when you're extra sad." He paused, then added, "It's okay to be sad, Mommy. Daddy would understand."

My mind raced back through the months. All those nights I thought I was being so careful, so strong for him. All those times I thought my grief was private. He'd known all along. Worse, he'd been worried about me, trying to take care of me when I was supposed to be taking care of him.

I remembered how he'd started bringing me glasses of water randomly throughout the day. How he'd ask if I was "okay in there" when I showered. How he'd started sleeping with his door open, something he'd never done before Tom died.

That night, after Ethan went to bed, I found a new cup of water on my nightstand with a note in wobbly kindergarten handwriting: "If you need to cry."

I broke down completely, finally understanding that my attempt to be strong was actually teaching my son that grief should be hidden, that emotions were something to be ashamed of.