In my son's final hours, he begged me to buy him something with a little deer on it.
It was the only thing he'd ever asked for in his four short years of life.
I couldn't even afford his medical bills. I went to sell my blood for the fifth time, bought the finest fabric I could find, and sewed this little suit by hand.
But when the suit was finished, my son was gone before he ever got to wear it.
I cried until I passed out, over and over, my heart shattered beyond repair.
Dominic, who hadn't rested in months, took time off to handle the funeral arrangements, running himself ragged taking care of everything.
When I finally came to, the suit was gone. He held me and wept.
"I was afraid it would break your heart all over again, so I buried it with him."
"It's my fault. I'm useless. I couldn't earn enough money to save our son."
I looked at his bloodshot eyes and the deep shadows carved beneath them, and shook my head through my tears.
"It's not your fault. Dominic, you did everything you could. You were a good father."
For days and nights after that, I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep.