That night, Jason slept curled against my side while I stared at the ceiling and made myself one promise.
He would not lose his future simply because we had lost Daniel.
I meant every word of it.
In practice, that promise meant opening the bakery at five each morning and cleaning office buildings until midnight.It meant giving up vacations and wearing the same winter coat for nine years because Jason needed braces, then a laptop, then money for college tuition.
Jason grew into the kind of boy who helped elderly neighbors carry their groceries and always called if he thought he might be late.
On graduation day, he hugged me so tightly that his cap slipped sideways.
“We did it,” he whispered.
“You did it.”
“No. We did.”
I held onto those words for years.
