For months, a scruffy stray lay beside my son’s grave every Sunday—then vanished before I could see where he went. Last week, I followed him across town to a dead-end street. When the door opened, a little boy with my son’s crooked eyebrow looked up at me and asked, “Who’s that?”
Part 1: The Dog by the Headstone
My name is Diane. Three years ago, my son Caleb died in a car accident, and MOst mornings it still doesn’t feel real.
People think three years is long enough to understand something like that.
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