My twelve-year-old son came home soaked after giving away his late father’s umbrella to a pregnant stranger in the rain. I wanted to be angry until the next morning, when our lawn was covered with forty-seven umbrellas and boxes that turned his quiet kindness into something much bigger.
My twelve-year-old son gave away the last thing his father, Darren, ever bought him, and three mornings later, forty-seven open umbrellas were planted across our lawn.
It started last week, when Eli came home soaked through.
I opened the front door with a dish towel over one shoulder, already annoyed because the pharmacy had called again about a prescription they still had under my late husband’s name.
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