My grandson Noah is nine years old.
Two years ago, he lost his mom, my son’s first wife.
Cancer took her—and with her, it took the light out of him.
He didn’t laugh the same anymore. Didn’t ask for toys. Didn’t get excited about things like other kids.
But he held onto one thing.
Her sweaters.
Soft, hand-knit, still faintly carrying her scent.
Then my son remarried.
His new wife, Rebecca, made it clear those sweaters didn’t belong in her house.
