When we got back to the house, opened up the door and went inside, it had never seemed so empty, quiet and lifeless. All I wanted to do was either scream my head off until I had no voice left or sit down and hope that this was all a mistake and would just go away. After all, we hadn't actually seen our son's body yet. He'd already been transported to the morgue at the county coroner's office. We didn't need to identify the body because he'd had his ID with him. We'd been given few details about what kind of condition his body was in after the accident, but if he was severely injured we weren't sure we would be able to handle seeing him in that kind of shape anyway. I knew I needed to make some calls in spite of the lateness of the hour. I was 44 years old at this time, but the first person I wanted to call was my mother. No matter how old we get I guess there are just sometimes when a guy needs his mom. I knew if I called her this late, she would realize right away that something was terribly wrong. I also knew, however, that if I didn't tell her right away about something this important, she would probably never forgive me. As I picked up the phone to call her and my stepdad, I knew she would be someone who would know exactly what we were facing-my oldest brother had died some 32 years ago. How could I tell my mother that she had now lost a grandson?