“The kind whose son had an illness medicine couldn't overcome.”
He began crying.
I held him.
For months, we'd carried the same guilt in different ways.
I'd blamed myself for not noticing how frightened Ethan was.
David blamed himself for not finding another treatment.
Neither of us had been able to stop the disease.
But Ethan's notebook reminded us that our son hadn't measured our love by whether we could save him.
He knew we loved him.
He'd never doubted it.
Caleb continued visiting.
At first, he came every Sunday.
Then more often.
Sometimes he helped David in the garden.
Sometimes he sat with me at the kitchen table.
Sometimes we spoke about Ethan.
Other times we talked about school.
Ordinary things.
College applications.
Music.
Friends.
And whether Caleb would ever learn to cook something besides instant noodles.
One afternoon, he arrived carrying a plastic container.
“I made brownies.”
I looked suspiciously at them.
