Here is the start of my short story.

Nobody knows, the trouble we've seen./
Nobody knows, the wisdom we've gleaned./
Nobody knows, but us/
“Hey, mom.”
Susan didn’t turn around. Greg was never late. Never. Not once. She just kept driving. Damn. Damn country roads. She put the pedal to the metal; the blue mini-van shuttering as its left wheel popped out of a pothole and its underside knocked against the uneven gravel road.
“Mom,” Rune picked his X-men backpack up from against his shins and looked at it, Wolverine stared back at him, his claws jutting from his knuckles and forming an X. Susan turned onto the paved road that headed into Elkridge.
We are so late. “What honey?” she asked, looking back to check her blindspot as she switched lanes.
“Can I show these poems to people at school? Daniel doesn’t believe Dad wrote poetry,” Rune said, plunging his small hands into the backpack oh no, and coming out with a mess of no no, not that papers scribbled on in Greg’s wide, loose scrawl.
She pulled the van to the side of the road. Its been six months, keep your cool.
“HONEY Too harsh. Too harsh. Honey. Where did you find those?”
His glistening red lips smiled. He looked up to her and said, “In daddy’s desk.”
He opened his desk drawers. There are assholes out there who would kill for that “Those are your father’s poems. They aren’t yours,” No one should read them. They are his. His alone. she shifted into first and puttered back out onto the road.
She drove silently to Thames Elementary, the bell had already rung, and the children were lining up in front of their teachers in the crisp fall air.
Before the sentinels they come/
Cherubim with outstretched mittened hands/
Like the crosses, and stars of father’s Omaha Beach lament/
Yet young, worthy special sons/
Susan put the nest of Greg’s papers into the back of the van. Then she scouted around in Rune’s backpack to make sure nothing remained. There was a single remaining scrap of paper, a well-worn unfolded Burger King napkin with a poem etched into it in red ink. She stuck it into the pocket of her hooded sweatshirt.
“Love you mom,” he said, opening his door and hopping out onto the curb, painted blue to indicate where she idled was for student loading and unloading only.
She smiled, “Love you too pumpkin,” and he rushed to the third grader line headed up by Mr. Berkman, who waved at her as she gunned the engine and tottered away.