He was grieving too.
I took a breath, pushing past the instinct to say no. I stepped forward, took Ethan’s favorite shirt, and placed it in Mason’s hands.
“Your father spent his life helping people,” I said softly. “I think he’d be proud of anything you make, honey.”
“Thank you, Mom.”
That night, he began. He spread Ethan’s shirts across the table, sorting them by color and texture. He measured, cut, stitched—quiet except for the faint hum of a tune Ethan used to whistle.
He was grieving too.
I tried not to hover—but I couldn’t help it. Sometimes I’d stand in the hallway, listening to the rhythm of the machine.
One morning, I found him asleep over a pile of fabric, needle still in hand, his cheek pressed against Ethan’s old sleeve.
“Mason,” I whispered, brushing his hair back. “Go to bed, sweetheart.”
He smiled sleepily. “Almost done, Mom. I promise.”
By the second week, the kitchen looked like a fabric storm. Scraps covered the counters, thread trailed everywhere, and I nearly tripped over stuffing near the fridge.
“Go to bed, sweetheart.”
“Hey!” I called, pretending to scold. “Are you secretly building a teddy bear army in here?”
Mason laughed, cheeks flushed. “It’s not an army, just… a rescue squad.”
Leave a Comment