When my only son di:ed, I believed I had bur:ied every possibility of family with him.
Five years later, a new boy walked into my classroom carrying a birthmark I knew by heart and a smile that unraveled everything I thought I had stitched back together. I wasn’t prepared for what followed, or for the fragile hope that came with it.
Hope is a dangerous thing when it shows up wearing your late child’s exact birthmark.
Five years ago, I buried my son.
