The other night in our dads group, the main topic was avoidance.

We talked about the way friends, family, coworkers, and sometimes even people who have known us for years do—or don’t—talk to us about our kids anymore.

Do we want to talk about them?

Do we want people to ask?

Do we want to hear their names?

For some of the dads in the group, it is still incredibly difficult when their child is brought up. Others have noticed something different: people almost seem to go out of their way not to mention children around them at all.

I understand why.

It’s a difficult subject.

How do you talk to someone who has lost a child about their children? How do you talk about your own children without worrying that you’re going to hurt them? How do you say the name of the child they lost without wondering if you’re reopening a wound?

I know I would worry about those things too.

You don’t want to cause more pain. You don’t want to say the wrong thing. At the same time, you want that person to know you still care.

There isn’t an easy answer.

When the conversation turned to how each of us handles those moments, I shared something that has become very clear to me.

I always have two kids.

I will always have two sons.

Sometimes someone who doesn’t know me will ask, “Do you have kids?”

I say yes.

Two sons.

Depending on the conversation, I may explain what happened. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I talk about Alex. Sometimes I simply answer the question and move on.

But the number doesn’t change.

Alex will always be my son.

He made me a dad.

He changed my life.

Both of my sons are my greatest pride in this world.

The fact that I can’t see Alex’s face anymore doesn’t change that. The fact that I can’t sit across from him, talk to him in person, or hear his voice doesn’t somehow erase his place in my life.

He’s still part of me.

He’s still part of my life.

I still talk about him.

I still talk to him.

There have been moments when I have felt his presence so strongly that I can’t explain it any other way. I felt him in our old house. There are times when I simply know he’s around.

Maybe someone could call that denial.

Maybe part of me doesn’t want to completely acknowledge a reality that is almost impossible to accept.

I know what happened.

I live with that reality every day.

What I refuse to accept is the idea that death somehow makes him less my son.

Alex was here.

He existed.

He matters.

He loved people, and people loved him.

He had a personality, a laugh, opinions, habits, stories, flaws, dreams, and a life that changed the people around him.

His death did not erase any of that.

And it certainly didn’t erase the fact that I am his dad.

I think this is one of the things that can be hard for people around grieving parents to understand. They may avoid mentioning our child because they don’t want to remind us.

But you aren’t reminding us.

We didn’t forget.

There isn’t some moment during the day when the reality disappears and then someone says our child’s name and suddenly brings it all crashing back.

The absence is already there.

What saying their name can do is remind us that someone else remembers too.

It can tell us that our child hasn’t disappeared from everyone else’s world.

It gives us permission to tell a story.

To laugh.

To remember something ridiculous they did.

That doesn’t mean every grieving parent wants to talk all the time. Some don’t. Some can’t. And that needs to be respected.

There probably isn’t a perfect rule for what to say.

Maybe the simplest thing is just to give us the choice.

“I never know whether you want to talk about him, but I want you to know you can always talk about him with me.”

That’s enough.

You don’t have to have the right words.

You don’t have to fix anything.

You don’t have to make the grief go away.

Sometimes just being willing to say their name matters.

Because mentioning Alex isn’t what causes the pain.

The pain exists because I love him and he isn’t physically here.

Talking about him also brings something else with it.

Love.

Memories.

Pride.

Stories.

And the chance to remind the world that he was here.

So when someone asks me how many children I have, my answer is easy.

I have two sons.

I always have.

I always will.