My name is Rebecca, though most people call me Becky. I’m 30 years old, and two years ago, my life was changed forever when I lost my little boy, Caleb. He was only five years old — full of laughter, curiosity, and dreams. One tragic accident took him from us, and with it, a part of my heart.
Since then, I’ve done my best to keep moving forward. I go to work, pay the bills, and smile when people expect me to. But inside, grief has been a constant companion. The one thing that kept me grounded was Caleb’s cedar chest — a small wooden box holding his most precious belongings: his dinosaur hoodie, his favorite sneakers, crayon drawings where he made us superheroes, and a silver bracelet passed down from my grandmother to him.
Whenever the grief grew unbearable, I’d open that chest and hold those memories close. It wasn’t just a box. It was a lifeline.
But not everyone understood. My mother-in-law, Lorraine, often told me it was “unhealthy” to hold onto Caleb’s things. She believed I needed to let go and “move on.” I tried to ignore her words, but then one day, something happened that I will never forget.
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