I wanted to freeze that moment. Frame it. Bottle it forever. Because that was my boy—the one who used to build LEGO cities and dream out loud about becoming an engineer. The boy who’d been buried under silence, shame, and survival… now rediscovering himself.
One stick, one smile, one note at a time.
“You’ll want to be there,” she wrote.
They called his name, and my hands trembled.
“Most Resilient Student!”
He walked to the stage—not rushed, not embarrassed—standing tall, proud. He paused, scanned the crowd, and smiled.
He lifted one hand toward me, and one toward Eddie—who was seated quietly in the back row, tears shining in his eyes.
That gesture said everything we hadn’t yet been able to say: we were healing. Together.
Eddie calls now. Sometimes briefly—“How was school?” or “Still into that robot stuff, son?” Sometimes they talk about old movies. Sometimes the silences are awkward. But Mason always picks up.
It’s not perfect. But it’s something.
He writes little notes to himself and tapes them above his desk.
“Remember to breathe.”
“One step at a time.”
“You’re not alone, Mase.”
He teases me about my ancient phone and greying hairs. He complains about the asparagus I serve with his grilled fish. He keeps trying to convince me to let him dye his hair green.
And when he walks into the kitchen and asks for help, I stop what I’m doing and help.
Not because I know everything—but because he asked. Because he trusts me enough to ask. And that matters more than any answer.
Sometimes love is loud. Sometimes it’s showing up without being invited. Sometimes it’s saying: I know you didn’t call, but I’m here anyway.Continue reading…
