The Kind of Silence Money Can’t Buy
Two months earlier, Vince’s wife, Sienna, had died in childbirth.
People said things like “at least the baby survived,” as if grief was a math problem that could be balanced.
Since then, Vince had learned there were two things he couldn’t control.
Grief.
And a newborn who refused comfort.
Up front, Vince tried everything: rocking, patting, humming like a man who had never sung a lullaby in his life.
He offered a bottle.
The baby turned away, screaming harder.
Across the aisle, a flight attendant hovered — close enough to help, far enough to stay safe.
No one wanted to be the person who “interfered” with Vince Mercer.
