“Yeah, baby. He would.”
We went to bed. I lay awake for a long time, listening to the rain tap against the window, wondering how I was supposed to raise a boy this good when the world felt so heavy sometimes.
---
The next morning, I woke to the sound of birds instead of rain. I shuffled downstairs in my robe, coffee mug in hand, and opened the front door to grab the newspaper.
The mug slipped from my fingers and shattered on the porch. Hot coffee splashed across my bare feet.
Our entire front lawn was covered in umbrellas.
Dozens of them. Bright splashes of color against the green grass—pink, blue, red, yellow, striped, polka-dotted, even some with wild patterns. Forty-seven umbrellas, planted neatly in rows like flowers. Under each one sat a small white box with a number hand-painted on the lid. 1 through 47.
Neighbors were already gathering on the sidewalk. Mrs. Alvarez from next door had her phone out, filming. Mr. Peterson across the street stood with his mouth open.
“Sarah?” someone called. “What is all this?”
I couldn’t answer. My legs moved on autopilot as I walked down the porch steps into the damp grass. The umbrellas swayed gently in the morning breeze. Each one was open, perfectly positioned to shield its box.
Eli came running out behind me in his pajamas. “Mom? What’s—oh wow.”
He stopped beside me, eyes wide.
I knelt at Box #1. It was a simple white cardboard box, the number “1” painted in careful blue strokes. My hands trembled as I lifted the lid.
Inside was a folded letter on thick cream paper, and beneath it, something small and metallic.
