A Whisper in the Dark

Last night, as I turned off the light and tucked Kenzo in, the room was quiet - just the sound of his soft breathing and the creak of the bedsheets. Then, in the stillness, he whispered,

“Mummy, this coming Father’s Day… I don’t have a father.”

My heart stopped.

I climbed into bed beside him, wrapped my arms around his little body and held him close. I could feel the weight of that truth pressing on both of us - his words so small, but so heavy.

I whispered back,

“You do have a father, baby. He lives in your heart. That’s where he’s still alive. And he will always be watching over you from heaven.”

Kenzo didn’t say anything after that. He just snuggled into my chest, and I could feel his breath slow into sleep.

Even in the dark, even in his grief, he lets me in.
And I will keep reminding him that love never leaves - it only changes shape.
From arms that once held him…
…to the invisible string that still does.

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