Caleb had barely touched his father’s guitar since David died. So when he carried it onto the stage at his school’s Father’s Day assembly, I knew something was different. I just had no idea that two strangers in uniform were about to give him a reason to start living again.
My name is Jennifer, and my son, Caleb, is 12 years old.
Three years ago, my husband, David, died after a long illness.
People say “battle” when they talk about illnesses like his.
I understand why.
There were appointments, medications,
hospital stays, good weeks that made us hopeful, and bad weeks that made us afraid to hope again.
But toward the end, it didn’t feel like a battle.
It felt like watching someone we loved disappear by inches.
Caleb was nine when his father died.
At first, I thought he was handling it remarkably well.
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