Mason is fifteen now. He was always quiet—the kind of kid who’d rather watch clouds drift than chase a football. After Ethan died, he grew even quieter. No anger. No outbursts. Just my son retreating deeper into himself while the silence filled our home.
Mason has always loved to sew. My mother taught me, and I passed it on to him. When he was little, he’d sneak scraps from my basket and make tiny pillows for his action figures.
While other boys chased sports, Mason was happiest at the kitchen table, bent over a project, hands steady, eyes focused.
People teased him for it. He never argued. He just kept sewing.
Mason has always loved to sew.
A few weeks after Ethan’s funeral, I found him stitching a patch onto his backpack. I watched him—thread between his teeth, fingers moving quickly—and tried to keep my voice light.
“What are you working on now?”
He shrugged. “Just fixing the tear.”
I looked closer. The fabric was one of Ethan’s old shirts—blue plaid, the one he wore on fishing trips. My chest tightened.
“You miss him too, baby?”
He nodded without looking up. “Every day, Mom.”
“What are you working on now?”
I wanted to say something comforting, something right—but nothing felt enough.
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