The day everything tilted was a Tuesday in April. Twelve-year-old Caleb came home from Louis’s funeral silent, clutching his best friend’s baseball glove. They’d been inseparable—Little League teammates, Halloween partners, Minecraft builders. After Louis’s death, the laughter in our apartment vanished.
Therapy helped some, but grief staggered. Then, one night in June, Caleb said Louis deserved a real headstone and maybe a memorial night. He insisted on earning it himself—mowing lawns, washing cars, walking dogs. He fed every dollar into a battered shoebox, proud of each step closer. Then came the fire. We escaped, but the shoebox was gone. Caleb collapsed, whispering, “I promised him.”
