He tried not to.
One winter, a young man refused shelter because the program required surrendering his dog overnight.
Ethan spent three hours finding a pet-friendly alternative.
His supervisor said:
“You can’t do that every time.”
She was right.
Boundaries.
Ethan struggled.
History made him want to save everyone too.
He started supervision and therapy.
Good.
Compassion without limits becomes another way of disappearing.
Five years after Mom died, Ethan returned to her grave.
First time.
I went with him.
He carried yellow roses.
Of course.
He stood quietly.
Then said:
“I was mad at you.”
To Mom.
Wind.
Nothing else.
“You knew who I was and didn’t tell me.”
He put the flowers down.
“You wanted me to know you before the family. I get why.”
Pause.
“Still mad.”
I smiled.
The dead can handle complexity.
Then:
“Thank you for looking.”
That was all.
On the drive home, Ethan asked:
