Last week, we got the dreaded question. “How many children do you have?”

It was an innocent question, asked in the middle of small talk, the kind of conversation that should be easy. But we felt the familiar tension rise in our chest.

Once, we would have answered without hesitation. Four. We have four children. We were proud of our perfect family of two boys and two girls . There was something complete about that number—like it held our whole world. But now, that question carries weight, pressing into a tender place I never expected to feel.

I never once considered how painful it could be for someone who has lost a child. Now, I feel it every time.

If we say three, we feel like we are betraying Julian—as if leaving him out of the number somehow lessens his place in our family. But if we say four, we have to brace ourselves for the follow-up questions—Oh, how old are they? And then what? We take a breath. We measure the moment. Will this turn into one of those heavy, awkward conversations where someone looks at us with wide eyes and stumbles over an apology? Do we want to carry that weight right now?

We are not the kind of people who want to draw attention to ourselves, yet here we are, faced with a question that can shift the atmosphere of an entire room.

And yet, isn’t that what grief does? It interrupts. It exists beneath the surface of the ordinary, always there, waiting to be noticed. A question like this pulls it out of hiding, reminding me that Julian’s absence is still felt. That it will always be felt.

We have lost before. We lost a child in utero at twelve weeks, and while that child is still ours, we have never struggled with leaving them out of the number. It feels different. Maybe because we never held that child in our arms. But Julian? He was here. He lived. He laughed. He was known and loved.

So what do we say?

I believe in the power of storytelling. Stories connect us. They remind us that we are not alone. But not every moment is the right time to tell our story. Julian’s story is sacred. Our story is sacred. And we get to choose when and how we share it. Not because we want to hide it, but because some stories deserve more than a passing comment. Some stories deserve to be held with care.

And yet—there’s the other side of it. We love to talk about our children. Not just the ones who are still here with us. We love to say their names. To tell their stories. Because remembering is a kind of keeping. It’s a way of saying, They mattered. They still do.

So we take it moment by moment. Some days, we say three. Some days, we say four. Like those test questions in school, "Answers may vary." And I suppose, however we choose to answer, both are true. The ones in our arms and the ones we carry in our hearts—each one is part of us. Our family is still whole, just not all on this side of heaven. 

If you’ve ever had to navigate this question, I’d love to hear—How do you answer?