Where do I go from here?

I never thought the city I grew up in and loved so much could turn into such a constant reminder of my pain. Portland, with its vibrant streets and lush green parks, used to be our world. My son, Ben, and I would spend countless hours exploring Powell's Books, biking along the Willamette River, or just enjoying the quirky charm of the Saturday Market.

It was a typical rainy evening when the call came. Ben had been hit by a drunk driver while walking home from a friend's place near the Pearl District. The news shattered me, but the aftermath was an odyssey through a legal and emotional labyrinth I was unprepared for.

The driver, whose life was spared by mere luck, left Ben to die on the cold, wet pavement. That night, the city's rain seemed to mourn with me, but it also washed away the evidence, complicating the case further. I knew then that justice for Ben would be a battle.

Finding a wrongful death lawyer was my first step towards some semblance of peace. I met with several, but it was Emily, with her quiet determination and empathy, who understood the depth of my loss. She was from Portland too, and she knew how much this city meant to us. She took on our case, promising to fight for Ben's memory and for the justice he deserved.

The legal process was grueling. There were days I felt like giving up, especially when dealing with the insurance company. They were cold and calculating, and they seemed to measure Ben's life in dollars and cents. The medical bills from the night of the accident were astronomical, and then there were the funeral costs. I wanted Ben to have a farewell surrounded by the flowers he loved, but even that seemed like a luxury I couldn't afford.

The insurance adjusters were like automatons, reciting policies and clauses, never once acknowledging Ben as a person. They resisted covering the full extent of expenses, claiming the accident was partly Ben's fault for "not being cautious enough." It was maddening. Each rejection letter, each call, felt like another blow, another reminder of the injustice of it all.

Portland continued to live its life around me. I'd see families laughing and couples walking hand in hand, all in the places where Ben and I had created our memories. Each visit to the riverfront, where we'd watch the sunset, or to the rose gardens, where we'd picnic, was laced with both love and agony.

With Emily's help, we managed to push through. She was relentless in court, highlighting the negligence and recklessness of the driver, the pain of a mother, and the void left in our community. Slowly, the tide turned.

Under pressure and facing potential bad press, the insurance company finally settled, though it felt more like a concession than justice.

The money covered the bills and the funeral, but how do you put a price on a life? How do you compensate for the laughter that's gone, the future that was stolen?

Now, I walk through Portland, seeing Ben in every echo of our past adventures. I volunteer at places we love, trying to keep his spirit alive in this city that both holds my heart and my hurt. I speak to others about the dangers of drunk driving, hoping to prevent another mother from standing where I did.

Portland will always be my home, but now it's a place of both healing and haunting memories of my son. Every day here is a step through grief but also a step towards keeping Ben's memory alive.

It's a painful journey, but it's one I owe to him to keep his light shining in this city we both cherished.

But in the end... where do I go from here?