I smiled faintly. “Still do.”
Mason looked up, eyes shining. “Are you coming next Saturday too?”
I glanced at Claire. She gave a small, brave nod.
“I’d like that very much,” I said.
As Mason leaned against my arm, humming softly, something inside me shifted. The ache was still there — it might always be. But it no longer felt like the end of my story.
Grief had not disappeared.
It had grown roots.
And somehow, through pancakes and crayons and careful boundaries, it had begun to bloom.
Now I carry a living piece of my son’s smile into every Saturday morning.
And this time, hope doesn’t feel quite so frightening.
