November always weighs heavily on me. It begins with the remembrance of All Souls' Day, a moment when we reflect on those we've lost—those dear to our hearts who will never return to our lives. As I walk through the cemetery of our parish in Kerala, I find myself pausing by the graves of acquaintances, family, and friends. Each tombstone feels like a silent invitation to remember, to speak into the quiet, sharing updates about my life and the little joys or challenges that come with the passing of time. It seems as though, in some way, they are still eager to listen. Their souls, it feels, are still close to ours, waiting for our intercession, hoping for our prayers.

My last stop on these walks always brings me to the tomb where my father and my elder son, Tony, are laid to rest. There, in the silence of the graveyard, I find a strange beauty—the meeting of souls, the exchange of prayers. My father, who never saw any of his grandchildren grow up, and Tony, who never had the chance to take his first breath fully into this world, are bound to me in ways words cannot describe.

My children, Eliza, Martha, and Zac, accompany me on these walks. Each has their way of honoring their grandfather and older brother Tony. Eliza arranges flowers with quiet reverence, sometimes dusting the tombstone as if to make the names clearer. During one visit, Eliza asked, "Mum, why isn't Tony's name on the tombstone?" Her soft voice carried the weight of a teenager grappling with life's complexities.

Tony had only lived for three days, born prematurely at 26 weeks. He weighed barely a kilogram and had a perfectly formed little body, but his lungs couldn’t sustain him for more than three days. He was a gift from heaven, baptized and laid to rest beside my father. Sometimes, I feel my father deserved him more, for he never got to see any of his grandchildren, never got to know the joys of fathering his daughter’s children. Tony was a beautiful angel, and his loss is one that forever reverberates in my heart.

“Tony was here,” I said softly to Eliza, my voice shaking a little. “His name might not be on the tombstone, but his spirit is here with us. He’s always part of our family.”

Eliza paused for a moment, looking at me with wide eyes, as if trying to make sense of what I said. I saw the wheels turning in her young mind. I knew she missed the brother she never got to play with, and yet, in that moment, I saw her quiet understanding. She wasn’t just asking about a name on a stone. She was asking about the space left in our lives by someone who was never fully part of this world.

I explained to her that, though Tony was never able to grow up, he would always be part of our family’s story, part of our prayers, part of our hearts. And I shared with her my belief that Tony is in heaven, watching over us, a guardian angel in a place of perfect peace.

It was during one of these quiet walks that Eliza reminded me of something important. "Mum," she said, wiping away a small tear, "Do you know November 16 is World Prematurity Day?" She was referring to the day when people across the world would light buildings in purple to honor the premature children and their families.

A flood of emotion overwhelmed me as I thought of Tony, my premature son. The world seemed to dim for a moment, and I couldn’t stop the tears that filled my eyes. Time may heal, they say, but there are some wounds—especially a mother’s wound—that never truly fade. Every year, as the purple lights glowed across cities, my heart would break again in the same place, and yet, there was a strange comfort in it, too. A reminder that Tony’s life, brief as it was, mattered. His memory was being honored, and that meant everything to me.

Martha, our little ray of sunshine, asked innocently, her hand resting on mine, “Mum why are you sad?” I kissed her forehead gently. "I'm just thinking of your big brother Tony, darling. But don't worry—he's in a beautiful place, and we'll all see him again one day." Martha's eyes grew serious, then her bright smile returned. "Do you think I would be born in this beautiful place if Tony had lived?" she asked, her question simple yet profound.

Her words pierced through me like a dagger, but not in a painful way. It was a reminder, a question that so many mothers must ask at some point—would I have the family I have now if things had been different? Would I be this person, this mother, this woman, if life had unfolded differently? Would Tony have stayed with us, and if so, what would life have been like with him here?

I paused before answering, gathering my thoughts. "Martha, sweetheart, it’s God's plan, not ours, that determines the number of children we have. God gives children to parents He trusts the most and He gave us you, just as He gave us Tony. You are a beautiful gift, just as He was. Your place in this family was always meant to be. You know the Bible says “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. (Jermiah 29: 11)

Martha nodded thoughtfully, her eyes lighting up with understanding, even if just for a moment. Then, as children do, she was back to her playful self, skipping around the room, her laughter filling the air like music.

That night, as we sat around the dinner table, the conversation turned to lighter topics. Zac was telling us about his inter school competition and how his idea could not make it to the finals. For a moment, I let go of my sorrow and allowed myself to be swept into the joy of the present, the love of my children, and the beauty of life.

But in the quiet moments after dinner, when the house had settled and the night seemed still, my thoughts drifted back to Tony. To the son who never had the chance to grow, to the child who would have been 21 this year.

I imagined his graduation, the man he might have become, the brother he would have been to his siblings. But even though I couldn’t hold him in my arms anymore, I knew one thing: He is still with us in spirit. He is watching over us, loving us in ways that defy time and space.

As I closed my eyes that night, I whispered a prayer not just for my children, but for the unborn children too, for the ones who had only known the briefest glimpses of life. In that prayer, I also whispered a prayer of thanks—for the brief time I had with Tony, for the love we shared, and for the truth that love, in all its forms, endures forever.