For months, the same strange dog appeared beside my son’s grave every Sunday.
He never barked. He never begged for food. He simply sat there, quietly watching over the headstone before disappearing without a trace.
Then one Sunday, I decided I couldn’t ignore it anymore.
I followed him.
What I discovered behind a weathered front door introduced me to a familiar face—and a little boy who changed everything I thought I knew about the three years since my son’s death.
My name is Diane, and I lost my son, Caleb, three years ago in a car accident that still doesn’t feel real most mornings when I wake up.
Three years sounds like enough time for someone to understand what happened.
It isn’t.
Some mornings, I open my eyes and instinctively reach for my phone before remembering there will never be another message from him.
