When I found a muddy shovel hidden under my seven-year-old son’s bed, I assumed he’d dragged it in from the yard. Then he grabbed the handle and burst into tears. His father had been dead for eight months, but somehow, the shovel belonged to a secret only the two of them shared.
The last thing I expected to find under my seven-year-old son’s bed was a shovel.
Not a plastic toy from the sandbox.
A real shovel.
Its wooden handle was worn smooth by small hands. Dried mud clung to the metal blade.
