The moment I pulled it into the light, my son screamed.
“Please don’t take it!”
He ran across his bedroom, wrapped both arms around the handle, and tried to pull it away from me. Tears streamed down his face.
“I have to keep it.”
“Noah,” I said softly, kneeling beside him. “Where did you get this?”
He shook his head.
“I can’t tell you.”
“You can tell me anything.”
His lip trembled.
“Dad told me to keep it here.”
For a moment, the room seemed to disappear around me.
My husband had been dead for eight months.
“What do you mean?”
