Grief reshapes everything. It leaves silence where laughter once lived, and absence in the spaces once filled with love. When my adult son passed away in March 2019, it felt as though the ground beneath me had given way. He was the kind of person who carried light—kind, thoughtful, always ready with a word of encouragement. Losing him wasn’t just losing a child. It was losing a part of myself, a piece of my identity, and the future I had always imagined with him in it.
The days that followed blurred together. There were the rituals of mourning—flowers, condolences, well-meaning words from friends and strangers—but none of it quieted the echo of his absence. Every corner of my home, every routine, whispered his name. I didn’t know how to live in a world he no longer inhabited.
Months passed. Grief didn’t leave—it settled in like an unwelcome houseguest. By December, I was still moving through that fog when a message arrived.
A young woman reached out. She said my son had once mentored her. She asked for my address, and I assumed she wanted to send a card. I didn’t think much of it.
A week later, she messaged again. Her words were heavier this time. She said she had something important to share—something that couldn’t fit inside a card.
When she told me her story, I cried.
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