That trip they finally made to Switzerland was glorious. The children were spoiled by their grandparents, and he and Jaya spent a couple of romantic nights away at Lake Geneva, where they hardly left their bed. By their return flight, Jaya was back to normal, handing out snacks and coloring books to occupy the children during the long journey, while she read a novel. He’d been impressed with her courage then, and he needed to have faith in her now. This was what made their marriage work: drawing on their respective strengths.

Keith attended the first session with the grief counselor alone, out of obligation to the rest of his family. Going to a shrink, as his dad would call it, wasn’t part of Keith’s comfort zone either; he was in the habit of suppressing unpleasant feelings or using them as motivators for change. The counselor was a young woman, probably too young to be a parent herself. “Tell me about your son,” she said when they sat down.

Keith shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Perhaps Jaya was right. How could a stranger who didn’t know him, who’d never known Prem, help him grieve? Still, he started from the beginning. “He was an easy baby, always happy. We took him everywhere—restaurants, hikes, train rides—and he napped wherever and whenever.” He explained that Prem had a lightness and joy that counterbalanced Karina’s seriousness. “Prem always made us laugh, whether he was trying to or not. One time, he lobbied to have a water balloon fight inside the house.” Keith laughed, recalling how Prem had unrolled giant garbage bags to cover all the furniture as part of his campaign.

He laughed. Eight days after his son’s death. Immediately, he was flooded with guilt. Tears sprang to his eyes.

“It’s okay,” the counselor said. “It’s normal to feel all kinds of emotions in the wake of a death, especially a sudden death. The death of a . . . child.” She spoke the word cautiously. “Of course, you have happy memories of your son. That’s the way it should be.” She leaned toward him and placed a hand on the coffee table between them, as if trying to reach him. “At some point in the future,” she told him, “when you think of your son, the happy memories will come to your mind before the tears come to your eyes.”

Keith wasn’t sure he believed her, but just to know such a thing might be possible, that there might be a day when he could smile before crying when thinking of sweet little Prem and all he had lost from his future, and all they had lost with him—there was some hope in that. It was the tiniest glimmer of hope, but Keith grasped on to it.

The next time, he brought Karina with him, and the counselor asked her some of the same questions. “What do you miss about your brother?”

Karina recalled sweet moments they’d had together, moments Keith was vaguely aware of but didn’t remember himself. He’d been too inattentive; he’d missed so many moments. Tears welled up in his eyes. Karina cried too as she recalled Prem, wiping small tears from the corners of her eyes before they escaped. But when the counselor asked her about Prem’s death, if she wanted to talk about that day, Karina firmly shook her head no, and Keith became protective. The police had already questioned Karina and he thought their questions had gone too far, had been almost accusatory. His daughter needed a safe place to heal and move on from the memory of that terrible day, not to dwell on it.