My 17-year-old son shaved his head for his sick girlfriend – the next day, her mother said, “You need to come to the hospital and see what your son did.”

used to be a paragraph. A “k” where there used to be a phone call. I told myself it was the stress, the chemotherapy schedules, and the lack of sleep.

After all, grieving mothers don’t owe anyone small talk.

“She barely wrote back.”

Aaron kissed the top of my head, which still felt new and lovely, and grabbed his keys.

“Drive carefully,” I said.

“Always.continue reading …