Every Sunday, my son Mark and I walked the same path around the lake.
We’d been doing it for two years, ever since his mother died. No matter how exhausted I was or how heavy the week felt, Sundays were untouchable. Just the two of us, walking side by side—sometimes talking, sometimes silent. It was the only routine that still felt solid.
Mark needed it. I did too.
He’s always been gentle. The kind of kid who apologizes when someone else bumps into him. After his mom passed, that softness turned fragile. Loud noises made him flinch. He asked questions about death at random moments, watching my face closely, like he was checking whether I might disappear too.
I tried to stay steady for him. I swallowed my own grief whole. Some days I still turned to tell his mom something small and ordinary, only to remember she wasn’t there. Those moments hit hard—but Mark couldn’t see that. He needed his dad present, not broken.
So we walked.
That Sunday felt normal enough. Pale sky, joggers circling the lake, families with strollers. We were halfway around when Mark stopped so suddenly I nearly ran into him.
“Mark?” I said.
He didn’t answer. He crouched in the grass, tugging something free from the weeds.
A teddy bear.
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