“Guess my score,” my son Tom prods as he drops his busted backpack on the kitchen island.

I know this game. We haven’t played it in a while, not since his middle school days. The game means that he’s done well on a test but is not quite sure how to voice it.

“What’s the high score?” I ask, knowing this guessing game is for the PSATs, so not the usual range numbers I’m used to.

“1520 is the highest.”

“1490” I guess. Dozens and dozens of times I’ve played this game and still I’m afraid I’ll overshoot the first try and ruin the prideful reveal. But guessing too low is insulting, so I have to aim high, but not too high.

“Higher” he rolls his eyes. This is always his answer.

“1500.” I’m glad I didn’t flub it up.

He shakes his head.

“1510” I widen my eyes, so he knows I’m impressed.

He shakes his head with a grin this time. It’s been years since I’ve seen those happy cheeks.

“Really?” I am impressed. “A 1520? A perfect score?” My cheeks are happy, too.

“No, not perfect. I got one wrong. But they score the results on a curve.”

“But you can’t get higher than 1520. So that is a perfect score.”

“But not a perfect result,” the kid who only answered to the name Batman the first five years of his life patiently explains.

He walks over to the pantry cupboard and grabs an oatmeal macrobar out of a bulk-sized cardboard box. He tears the wrapper with his teeth and engulfs the entire bar in his first bite.

I want to squeal the excitement building up inside of me, but I stop myself. I don’t want to shut Tom down. My therapist has pointed out many times that big emotions make Tom and his sisters uncomfortable. Especially since their father’s death.

“Wow,” I carefully modulate, trying to figure out how to get that grin back.

He swings his backpack down off the island and up onto his shoulder. He wants to leave. I want to say more. I want to shout more, really. I want to scream up into the lofty ceilings of our new house how gigantically, enormously, immeasurably proud I am of this rock steady kid. I want a loud celebration of this quiet kid. I want to make one of those giant banners, the ones my high school football team used to blast through before every game. I want all my friends and Tom’s friends, those crowds of adoring fans who’ve been cheering us through our shocking grief, to come form two endless lines down our tree-lined street for Tom to triumphantly run through. Our new neighbors will come out of their homes to see what the excitement is, and they will hear from the gathered crowd how monumental this accomplishment is. Without me having to tell the sad part of our tale, they will hear the good news first, and their hearts will fill to know the happy story. And the next time Tom or I walk our skittish dog down that same street, our fellow east-siders will shout greetings and encouragement out their windows, and we will scream gratitude back.

“Seriously, bud, that’s incredible,” I calmly say instead.

“The test was easier this time. I think because it was the first time being online, they made it easier.”

Is this true? Would they make the PSAT test easier to help kids acclimate to the new digital format? That doesn’t seem like something the College Board would do.

“Well, still. That’s so impressive.” I want him to feel how proud I am, but I don’t know how to pack the enormity of my delight into a few quiet words. He nods gratefully and leans toward the stairs, waiting to see if I am done.

“Really, bud. Good job.”

I pick up the protein bar wrapper and turn to pull the trash can drawer out from under the counter to throw it away. I hear Tom’s oversized feet pounding up the stairs as I close it.

I glance down at my phone, brainstorming who I can text to share this news without seeming too braggy. Before I realize what I’m doing, the favorites screen on my phone is open and I’m looking for Geoff’s name. But it’s not there.

And then pow, the grief sledgehammer hits. Like the devastating anvil that would repeatedly send stars circling around Wiley E. Coyote’s head, the grief memory smashes me sideway once again. Four years since the seismic shift of a Friday night when police came to our front door and told me the man I depended on most had taken his own life. He is still the one I want to tell. The one I should tell.

There would be no guessing game if Geoff were here. I would spill the beans immediately.

“Tom got a perfect score on the PSATs” I would blurt before even saying hello. There’s no need to say things correctly when you’re sharing with someone you trust. With someone whose brain you’ve spent twenty-eight years knowing.

“What? Really?” Geoff would have me on his car speakerphone, driving back from some Chamber event. “I’ll get something to celebrate.”

Geoff liked to celebrate everything, so it did not feel out of place to celebrate anything. He’d stop at CVS for a stash of Smarties candies. He’d be proud of the clever pun, forgetting that I was a southern sorority girl, so had spent my college years orchestrating study breaks filled with grade-referencing snacks. It’s CRUNCH time! OREO you a smart cookie? You are on a ROLO!

I’d want to make some showy exhibit at the dinner table with the candy and some flowers and a bright yellow “We’re So Proud of You!” sign arranged on in the middle. Tom’s older sisters would join in the revelry when they saw the telling display.

“No, that’s too much,” Geoff would say when he saw me pulling the markers out.

Less is more was his life’s motto. I would learn later that restraint can be a sign of loss aversion. That someone’s fear of giving, spending, revealing, or sharing too much of themself can be a sign that they haven’t learned to process loss. Like my husband not processing his parents’ deaths in his youth. I wonder if there is such a thing as gain aversion. If someone can be afraid to show too much joy.

“I hear you did well on the PSATs,” Geoff would greet Tom when he wandered into the kitchen. “I got you something to celebrate.” He’d pull a single Smartie out of his suit pocket. Tom would smile at the joke.

“Wait,” Geoff would seemingly remember as he felt his other pocket. “There’s more.” He’d pull a Smartie candy out of each side pocket, breast pocket, front and back, left and right pants pockets, perfectly crescendoing the achievement without dysregulating the kid.

But Geoff’s not here. He’s dead. He will never know Tom scored perfect on the PSATs. I add it to the unbearably long list of the joys in our life that he has missed. And the triumphs that I alone must teach my kids to celebrate.

-Pamela O’Hara

A lifelong passionate storyteller, Pamela made her first living writing code and is now writing prose. As CEO of Batchbook Social CRM, she was featured as an Entrepreneur on Fire on John Lee Dumas’ podcast and named a Small Business Influencer Champion by Small Business Trends. She spoke on topics such as woman-owned businesses, social media software and work/life balance at SXSWi, WomanCon and the Small Business Summit. She has a BA in English from the University of Richmond and is mother to three strong AF teenagers and a dashing dog Beau who breathlessly drools on her every word.