Letters from parents.
And a table filled with homemade food.
Near the entrance stood a framed picture of Ethan.
Beneath it was a small red ribbon.
I stood looking at the photograph.
For a moment, I remembered the day we'd buried him.
The white lilies.
The two hundred people.
The boy walking toward the microphone in a bright red dress.
How angry I'd been.
How confused.
How frightened that something inappropriate was happening at the worst moment of my life.
Then I remembered Caleb's voice.
I was afraid people would laugh at me.
And Ethan's words.
Don't spend your life being afraid of something as small as embarrassment.
I smiled.
For years, I'd thought courage meant being strong enough not to cry.
But Ethan had taught us something different.
Courage could mean admitting fear.
It could mean asking for help.
It could mean standing in front of people who might laugh and keeping a promise anyway.
