There was one final line on Jack’s note that Theo showed me years later.
It had been written beneath the paragraph about the red dress and our judgmental relatives.
“Mom, if you look mad, give her thirty seconds. She’s nice when she has all the information.”
I stared at the words for a long time.
Then I laughed.
“That boy gave me far too much credit.”
Theo smiled.
“No,” he said. “He knew you.”
I folded the note carefully and returned it to its envelope.
For years, I had believed that being a good mother meant protecting my children from pain, even when that meant avoiding conversations neither of us wanted to have.
Jack taught me something different.
Sometimes love means telling the truth.
Sometimes it means admitting that you’re frightened.
And sometimes it means allowing another person to grieve in a way you don’t immediately understand.
I cannot bring my son back. I cannot give him the future he imagined, the college degree he wanted, or the ridiculous refrigerator he planned to buy.
