Yiyun Li's Haunting and Courageous 'The Deaths and Lives of Two Sons'
Twenty-plus years ago, I lost my younger brother and closest friend. He was just thirty. His illness and death detonated me leaving a blast radius so wide and long-lived that even now there are days I feel like I'm still burning.
And if that loss alone wasn't unbearable enough, seeing it ripple through everyone who loved him turned the pain into something almost cosmic. I watched my younger sister hollowed by the loss of her younger brother; his wife, widowed at just thirty, left to piece together a future from the ruins; a long line of aunts, uncles, and cousins once lit by his presence, now dimmed; and a brotherhood of lifelong friends, forever punctured by the absence of the one they couldn't imagine life without.
But nothing, and I do mean nothing, was, or remains, more shattering than bearing close witness to my parents' loss of their youngest child. Grief always carves deep. But for parents forced to endure the unendurable death of a child, grief like this reconfigures the soul.
When a child dies, you bury the child in your heart.
-Khalil Gibran
There's no shortage of literature on this subject. Most of it is too heartbreaking, profound, and often too painful to touch, even for parents desperate to find a way forward through the unrelenting shadow of such loss.
In my own attempts to understand the shape and scale of what my parents live with, to find words that might make their pain even faintly intelligible, I've read much over the years. And found little that truly helped. That is, until very recently.
A few weeks ago, I summoned the courage and stamina to read a piece I'd been hearing about but quietly avoiding, The Deaths and Lives of Two Sons by Yiyun Li, the writer's widely praised and devastating New Yorker essay.
Li's account of losing her 16-year-old son, and just seven years later, her 19-year-old son — both to suicide — is, in a word, crushing. But it is also the most raw, honest, and reverent piece I've ever read on the subject of losing a child.
The truth is that however I choose to express myself will not live up to the weight of these facts: Vincent died, and then James died.
-Yiyun Li, New Yorker (2025)
What Li has crafted defies logic. It's brave and sacred. Her words wipe away so much of the noise of our current moment, clearing the air to hold focus on things that truly matter. In Li's case, the loss of not one, but two, beloved young souls, and the unbearable, indelible grief of their loving mother.
Did Li's piece help me make better sense of my younger brother's death all those years ago? I honestly don't know. But it did something perhaps more important. It gave me a deeper, clearer window into the immensity of my parents' loss and their deep sorrow, a view I've often struggled to hold in full.
Li's piece will pinch you in places you didn't know you could feel. I can understand why those untouched by this kind of grief or those in the unfortunate position of having to bear witness to it up close may shy away from The Deaths and Lives of Two Sons, but I believe we owe this brave woman our attention. If only to sit beside her, place a hand gently on her shoulder, and let her know that even in a world without Vincent and James, she is not, nor will she ever be, alone.
Respectfully.