When my son found a filthy, one-eyed teddy bear half-buried in the grass, I didn't want to take it home, but my son wouldn't let go. That night, when I brushed its belly as he slept, something inside clicked, and a trembling voice whispered his name, begging for help.
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Every Sunday, my son, Mark, and I would take a walk together.
We'd been taking these walks for two years now, ever since my wife died.
No matter how tired I was, no matter how much paperwork waited on my desk or how many emails sat unanswered, we walked. Just the two of us.
Mark needed it. Heck, I needed it too.
Every Sunday, my son, Mark, and I would take a walk together.
He's a bright kid. Gentle in ways that scare me sometimes because the world isn't gentle back.
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Since his mom passed, everything feels sharper for him. He flinches at sudden noises and asks questions I don't know how to answer.
He watches me like he's waiting for me to disappear, too.
Some days I still forget she's gone. I'll turn to tell her something, and the space where she stood is just empty air.
Since his mom passed, everything feels sharper for him.
Those moments gut me every time, but I can't let Mark see that.
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