The worn green book in the stranger’s hands was the same one a 7-year-old girl had carried to my son’s funeral 18 years earlier. Beside her stood a little boy with a broken red truck. Then she opened the cover, showed Weston’s handwriting, and asked if I was ready to hear why he’d gone to the river.
The last thing my son Weston said to me was, “Of course, Mom.”
He was nineteen, getting ready to leave for college, and had spent most of that summer packing everything except what he needed.
He was nineteen, getting ready to leave for college.
Cardboard boxes covered his bedroom floor, and lists were taped to his closet door.
One box labeled DESK STUFF held tangled chargers, a broken calculator, and three pens that didn’t work.
“You’re taking garbage to college,” I told him.
He grinned over his cereal. “Sentimental garbage.”
Lists were taped to his closet door.
He grabbed his keys, kissed my cheek, and headed toward the door.
“Home for dinner?” I called.
“Of course, Mom.”
***
A few hours later, two police officers stood on my porch.
“Home for dinner?”
There had been an accident at the river outside town.
A seven-year-old girl had fallen into the water.
The current was strong.
Weston had jumped in before anyone else could reach her.
A seven-year-old girl had fallen into the water.
He managed to push her close enough to the bank for another man to pull her out.
Then the current took him.
The officers explained everything gently, but I remember almost none of what they said afterward.
The current took him.
My son had left that morning expecting dinner.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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