By Rae Dumont
It was devastating. Without any warning, the unimaginable happened. It should not have been this way. It could have been avoided. It might have been prevented. I had tried, and I had failed; I could not do it alone. With a little more care, a little more wisdom, then this tragedy would not have come to be.
But alas, he would not listen, he scoffed at seeking help. He sank deeper and deeper into despair. He waved away the concern of those who loved him, friends and family. Many who cared about him were turned away. He dismissed the helping hands that reached for him.
And then, a tragedy; a thunderclap. Then, the immense and resonating silence of loss.
I know how to cope with loss. I have done it before. I know how to grieve. I understand how it works. It will take time. And I have plenty of time. I will survive. Except, this is not just about me. In a flash, my claws are out, my fangs sharpened. I boil with fury, I swell up with rage. I pace like a caged animal, trapped in my anger. It consumes me, and I do not recognize myself. I cannot think of anything else. I cannot think at all.
How could he, how could he, how could he do this to them. He gave them life, he nurtured these babies. As they grew up, he grew more distant; he drew into himself. They worried about him. I watched as they offered love, and I saw how they feared they were in his way. Still, they were loyal. Until . . . everything stopped.
They searched for proof that he had loved them, for a message, any message to show that he had thought about them, at the end. They questioned one another. What did they do wrong? What did they miss? Should they have done more? Or did they try too hard? Not hard enough? And why, oh why . . .
I wished I could take their grief onto my own shoulders. That I could lift their turmoil and carry it away. I felt their confusion and their guilt, and I could not undo it. Even if I could rewind the clock, I could not imagine anything any of us might have done to stop the train wreck; anything we hadn’t already tried, nothing that had not already failed.
I started writing. I scribbled in my journal, in the hope that my rage might drain out. I wrote and I wrote, and it was all drivel. I was spewing grief and regret and anger onto the page. Nobody should have to read the words I vomited, day after day. Week after week. Month after month.
I begin to remind myself of the things that soothe me. A hard hike up to an isolated viewpoint. A slow walk in the woods, with fallen leaves crunching underfoot. A pause to see the patterns in the ice when the lake freezes over. I track the hawk circling overhead. I watch the first buds forming on the crabapple, and the ferns unfurling in the spring.
I make myself busy, I find ways to serve, projects that need doing. I design a quilt and stay up to all hours to finish it. A gift for someone who may or may not need it.
I stare at nothing. I cannot concentrate enough to read a book. I listen to my favorite music and my mind wanders. I am angry. I am angry at myself for being angry. When the anger begins to fade, it makes room for grief to flood into all the spaces of my mind. I grieve all the way back to the origins of everything. I question it all.
Eventually, a story forms in a corner of my mind. A story that takes shape and demands to be written, something about an aunt I loved. Then another story emerges about imaginary people, about their struggle with things I have witnessed, but never experienced.
Finally, an idea starts to form. Could I write about this tragedy? I do not mean, this tragedy that I lived through, no. I mean a tragedy like this one. Similar yet different. Could I write a book to reach people, make them feel less alone, help them understand their own story a little better? Could I imagine another path, another ending? Could I speak of resilience?
I make an outline, a crude draft. Slowly, I gain enough control of my grief and my rage to look at it, to describe it without getting lost in it. Slowly, I separate this narrative from my own life. Characters come into being, they become real in my mind. But they are not anyone that I know. They are themselves. I learn to love them, every one of them. I listen as they tell their story, a story that I treat with respect and with care. I write about them with all the compassion and all the wisdom that comes to me.
And so, page by page, draft after draft, the book emerges. It carries a message about depression, and about how much love can or cannot do. It offers love and hope, despite the despair and the rage. Each feeling finds its own place, with distinct shapes and colors; I take pains to keep them from bleeding into each another.
A novel is born, to honor memories and grief, and all that comes with them.
Raymonde Dumont, MD, LMFT, is a pediatrician and a family therapist. She practiced and taught for several years at Harvard Medical School, and at the Joslin Diabetes Center. She focused on the impact of one person’s illness through their entire family, and also on the impact of mental health and family function on medical outcomes. She is also a mother, a widow, and a friend to many. She lives and practices in Montclair, New Jersey, within reach of New York City. Her debut novel, In the Shadow of Silence, publishes February 17, 2026.
ABOUT THE BOOK: Eva’s lonely childhood has given her an intuitive connection with kids and teenagers. She is a gifted child psychiatrist. Single, she dreams of having her own children, and she yearns for love. The future seems bright when she meets Lyman; They build a family. They share adventures. They meet life’s challenges as team. They navigate a bout of Lyman’s depression; treatment works. They share rich, fulfilling years while their careers develop, and their children grow up. When their sons enter adulthood and their daughter is a teenager, they plan an entire summer as a family. But Lyman abruptly stops both therapy and medication. He spirals into a dark and irritable isolation that none of them can penetrate. After his brutal suicide, Eva is left to cope and to guide her children through the trauma, as they each rebuild their lives.
