When my son discovered a filthy, one-eyed teddy bear half-buried in the grass, I didn’t want to bring it home, but he refused to let go. That night, as I brushed its belly while he slept, something inside clicked, and a trembling voice whispered his name, asking for help.
Every Sunday, my son, Mark, and I go for a walk together.
We’ve kept this routine for two years now, ever since my wife passed away.
No matter how exhausted I am, no matter how much work piles up or how many emails go unanswered, we walk. Just the two of us.
Mark needs it. Truth is, I need it too.
Every Sunday, my son, Mark, and I go for a walk together.
He’s a bright kid. Gentle in a way that worries me sometimes, because the world isn’t always gentle in return.
Since his mom died, everything feels sharper for him. He startles at sudden noises and asks questions I don’t always 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 there’s just empty space where she should be.
Since his mom died, everything feels sharper for him.
