person.
He has both his grandmothers. He has his mother’s love and his father’s face and his father’s glove and two women who would walk through fire for him.
He came from love. He always did. He just needed all of us to finally tell him so.
Here’s what I learned, on a bench beside my daughter’s grave, holding a letter she wrote ten years before I read it.
My daughter died at eighteen, and I thought she’d died with a secret. She hadn’t. She’d died with a plan — the most loving plan a frightened girl could make. She knew she might not survive. And instead of protecting herself, she used what might be her last strength to make sure that if she was gone, the people she loved wouldn’t be alone: not me, not Margaret, not her son. She reached across her own death to hand three lonely people
