Funny.
Stubborn.
Brave.
And that he loved red.
He loved ridiculous red shirts.
Red shoes.
Red jackets.
Anything that made people turn their heads.
But there was one detail I had never told Ethan.
One detail I had buried with the rest.
His uncle had once made a promise to me.
A promise about the child I was carrying.
A promise I thought had died with him.
Until that night in our kitchen.
Ethan squeezed my hand.
“He wrote it down, Mom.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“The promise.”
My breathing stopped.
“In one of the letters.”
“What letter?”
“The one in the trunk.”
He reached into the inside seam of the dress.
Another hidden pocket.
My eyes widened.
He pulled out a folded piece of paper.
This time, I recognized the handwriting before he even opened it.
My hands began shaking again.
“No.”
“Mom…”
“No, Ethan.”
I couldn’t bear it.
“Don’t.”
“I have to.”
He unfolded the paper.
The auditorium was so quiet that I could hear the faint crackle of the page.
Then Ethan read.
Not loudly.
Just enough for me to hear.
“‘If I don’t get to see him grow up…’”
His voice broke.
He stopped.
I closed my eyes.
I already knew.
I knew what came next.
Ethan continued.
“‘…make sure he knows that courage isn’t about never being afraid.’”
I pressed my hand against my chest.
“‘It’s about doing the right thing while everyone else is telling you not to.’”
I started crying.
People around us were crying too.
But Ethan wasn’t finished.
He turned the page.
“‘And if someday he needs a reminder that being different isn’t something to apologize for, give him the red dress.’”
The auditorium seemed to disappear.
There was only Ethan.
Only me.
Only that letter.
Only the memory of a promise made nearly two decades ago.
I looked at the dress.
“The dress?”
Ethan nodded.
“He bought it.”
I stared at him.
“He bought it?”
“Before you knew you were having me.”
My lips parted.
I couldn’t speak.
Ethan looked down.
