“I Buried My Son 17 Years Ago — Then His Dog Tags Arrived in the Mail With A Note: ‘Dad…
My son died in combat seventeen years ago, or at least that is the truth I have lived with every single day since the government officials came to my door, but last month I stood alone in my kitchen holding a package that should not exist, feeling my knees weaken as I stared at dog tags I had already buried once in my life.
Attached to those tags was a folded note written in handwriting I would recognize even in the dark, even after decades, even if my hands were shaking so badly I could barely unfold the paper.
Inside, in that familiar slanted script, were words that ripped the air out of my lungs: “Dad, I’m alive. Ward 7B, VA Denver. Please come alone.”
The note was signed simply, “Jake,” and the moment I saw that name written that way, the way he always crossed his letters slightly too hard, the room felt smaller, tighter, like the walls were pressing in.
Jake, my son, died in Fallujah in 2007, and I know that because I was the one who identified what was left of him when the military told me that was necessary.
I know because I stood at Arlington while a flag was folded with precise, ceremonial care and pressed into my hands while words were spoken that I barely heard.
I know because for seventeen years I have visited his grave every single Sunday, rain or heat or freezing wind, standing in front of a marble headstone and talking to it like a man who refuses to accept silence.
But this handwriting was his, down to the smallest detail, the way he never fully closed his lowercase letters, the way his name always leaned slightly forward as if it were in a hurry.
My hands shook so badly that the metal tags clinked softly against each other, a sound that echoed far louder in my head than it should have.
The postmark said Denver, dated three days earlier, with no return address, just those tags on a simple chain and that impossible note demanding that I believe what I had buried nearly two decades ago was somehow not finished.
I had to sit down, because my legs would not hold me any longer, and as I lowered myself into the kitchen chair, memories came flooding back without permission.
If you are going to understand why this broke me the way it did, you need to know who Jake was and who he was supposed to be.
My son was twenty-three when he enlisted, fresh out of college with a business degree and a job offer waiting for him in Dallas, complete with benefits and a future his mother and I thought we had successfully secured.
We were proud in that quiet, working-class way, proud that he had done everything right, followed the path that was supposed to keep him safe.
Then September 11th happened, and the world shifted in a way none of us could ignore, and Jake came home one weekend in October with a look in his eyes I had never seen before.
He sat at our kitchen table, the same table I was sitting at now, and told us he had enlisted in the Marines, combat engineer, saying it like it was already done because it was.
His mother cried for two days straight, barely eating, barely sleeping, walking from room to room like she had already lost him.
I didn’t know what to say, because part of me understood the pull he felt, the same pull my own father felt when he went to Vietnam, while the other part of me wanted to bolt the doors and pretend the world outside did not exist.
The night before Jake shipped out, he stood in the doorway of his old bedroom and told me he knew I was scared, admitting quietly that he was scared too.
He said he couldn’t sit behind a desk while other people’s sons went to fight, that he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he did, and I hugged him tighter than I ever had in my life.
I told him I loved him and told him to come home safe, knowing even then that those words were a kind of prayer people say when they know they have no control.
He deployed in 2006, came back from his first tour changed but alive, quieter, restless at night, but still my son.
They sent him back for a second deployment in January 2007, and the last time I ever spoke to Jake was March fifteenth of that year, at three in the morning my time.
The satellite connection kept cutting in and out, his voice crackling through static as he told me he was tired but doing meaningful work, building schools and water systems, insisting that it mattered.
He told me he would be home in June, promised we would go fishing at that lake in Montana I never stopped talking about, said he had the cabin reserved and that June fifteenth was set.
He laughed, and I can still hear that laugh if I close my eyes long enough, and the last words he ever said to me were that he loved me.
Four days later, two uniformed men knocked on my door, and I knew before they opened their mouths why they were there.
They spoke carefully about a roadside device, a convoy, and how several men were lost instantly, explaining that identification would be necessary because of the severity.
I went to Dover Air Force Base three days later, walking into a room that smelled of chemicals and something colder that I still cannot describe.
The sergeant was gentle, professional, warning me before he showed me anything, explaining that identity had been verified through records and personal effects.
He held up dog tags, damaged and darkened, and a watch I had given Jake for his twenty-first birthday, the inscription still barely readable despite everything else.
They asked me to confirm, and I did, recognizing the height, the build, a birthmark on the left shoulder that no one else would have noticed.
They sent my son home in a flag-draped coffin, closed, and we buried him with full military honors while a bugle played and rifles fired into the air.
A Marine handed me the folded flag and spoke words about gratitude and sacrifice that blurred together as my wife sobbed beside me.
That was seventeen years ago, and my wife passed three years after that from <///>, though I always believed it was grief that truly took her.
Some losses hollow people out from the inside, and she never recovered from losing our only child.
I have been alone for fourteen years now, living in a house that feels too large and too quiet, keeping Jake’s room exactly as he left it.
Every Sunday, I visit his grave, talk to him, tell him about the weather, about nothing and everything, because silence feels worse.
I read his letters often, twenty-three of them from Iraq, worn soft at the edges from being handled too many times.
In the last one, dated March tenth, he wrote that when he got home he needed to tell me something important, something he couldn’t put into a letter, promising it was good news.
I never learned what that was, not until now, not until this package sat in front of me, not until I held dog tags that looked nothing like the damaged ones I remembered.
These were clean, shiny, newly made, carrying the same information, the same serial number, but untouched by fire or time.
The note told me to come alone, pointed me to Ward 7B at the VA in Denver, and offered no explanation for how any of this was possible.
I don’t understand what this means or how it could be real, but I know with a certainty that terrifies me that the handwriting is my son’s.
I am seventy-two years old now, with a bad hip, blood pressure issues, daily medication, and very few reasons left to keep going.
I’ve…
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I’m standing in my kitchen staring at a package that shouldn’t exist. Inside is a set of dog tags I buried 17 years ago. Attached to them is a note written in handwriting I’d recognize anywhere. Dad, I’m alive. Ward 7B, VA Denver. Please come alone. Jake, my son died in Fallujah in 2007. I know because I identified what was left of him.
I know because I stood at Arlington while they folded the flag. I know because I visited his grave every Sunday for 17 years, rain or shine, talking to a marble headstone like he could hear me. But this is his handwriting. The same slanted letters, the way he never quite closed his lower case as. The same way he signed every letter he sent home from basic training, from Germany, from Iraq.
My hands are shaking so badly I almost dropped the package. There’s a postmark from Denver, dated 3 days ago. No return address. Just those dog tags on a simple ball chain and that impossible note. I need to sit down. Let me back up. Let me tell you about Jake. My son was 23 when he enlisted.
He just finished college, business degree, had a job lined up at a firm in Dallas. Good money, benefits, the whole nine yards. His mother and I were proud. We thought he’d settled into the life we’d hoped for him. Then September 11th happened and everything changed. Jake came home one weekend that October and told us he’d enlisted in the Marines. Combat engineer.
His mother cried for 2 days straight. I didn’t know what to say. Part of me understood that’s what you did when your country needed you. That’s what my father did in Vietnam. But the other part of me, the father part, wanted to lock him in his room and never let him leave. Dad, he said to me that last night before he shipped out, I know you’re scared.
I’m scared, too. But I can’t sit behind a desk while other people’s sons go fight. I can’t live with that. I hugged him, told him I loved him, told him to come home safe. He deployed in 2006. First tour, he came back okay. Different, quieter, but okay. He had nightmares. Wouldn’t talk about what he’d seen, but he was whole. He was alive.
Then they sent him back. Second deployment, January 2007. The last time I spoke to Jake was March 15th, 2007. 3:00 in the morning my time. Middle of the day for him. Satellite phone. Connection cutting in and out. How are you, son? Tired, Dad. Really tired. But we’re doing good work here. Building schools, water systems.
It matters, you know. When are you coming home? Static on the line. Jake, June. I’ll be home in June. We’ll go fishing just like you promised. That lake up in Montana you keep talking about. I’ve got the cabin reserved. June 15th. You, me, and nothing but trout. He laughed. God, I can still hear that laugh. I love you, Dad. I love you, too, son.
That was the last thing he ever said to me. 4 days later, March 19th, 2007, two Marines in dress blues knocked on my door. I knew before they said a word. You always know. Mr. Donovan, we regret to inform you. IED. Convoy outside Fallujah. Four killed instantly. My son’s vehicle took the direct hit. His mother collapsed.
I caught her before she hit the floor. The Marines stood there, caps and hands, faces carved from stone. “They’ve done this before. They do it again. We’ll need someone to identify the remains,” one of them said quietly. “It’s It’s not pleasant, sir, but it’s necessary.” I went to Dover Air Force Base 3 days later.
They led me into a room that smelled like chemicals and death. The sergeant handling the remains was gentle, professional. Sir, I need to warn you. The blast was severe, but we verified identity through dental records. And these? He held up a set of dog tags. Blackened, bent, but readable. Denovan Jacob men wu tiba arensu mthodist. These were on the body.
And we found this nearby a watch. The time ex I’d given Jake for his 21st birthday. Crystal shattered, band melted, but the inscription on the back still visible. Time spent with family is time well spent. Dad, I need you to confirm this is your son. They pulled back the sheet. I’m not going to describe what I saw. Some things you can’t unsee, can’t unremember, but I looked at what was left.
The height, the build, a birthark on the left shoulder. I’d know anywhere. and I said, “Yes, that’s my son. That’s Jake.” They sent him home in a flag draped coffin, closed casket. We buried him at the Texas State Veteran Cemetery in Khen. Full military honors, 21 gun salute, taps. A Marine handed me that folded flag and said, “On behalf of the president of the United States, the commandant of the Marine Corps, and a grateful nation, I don’t remember the rest.
I just remember the weight of that flag in my hands and the sound of my wife sobbing. That was 17 years ago. My wife passed 3 years after Jake. Cancer. But I always believed it was a broken heart. She never recovered from losing him. Some people don’t. Some losses are too big, too final. So, I’ve been alone for 14 years now. Just me.
This house that’s too big, too quiet. And my weekly visits to Jake’s grave. I keep his room exactly as he left it. His mother couldn’t go in there, but I do. Sometimes I sit on his bed and read the letters he sent home. 23 letters from Iraq. I’ve read them each a 100 times. In the last one, dated March 10th, he wrote, “Dad, when I get home, I need to tell you something.
Something I can’t write in a letter. Something important, but it’s good news. I promise. See you in June.” I never found out what that something was until now. Until this package, until these dog tags in this note. I look at the tags in my hand. They’re identical to the ones they gave me at Dover. Same information, same serial number, but these are clean, shiny, recently made, not bent, not blackened, not pulled from a corpse.
The note says, “Come alone.” It says, “Ward 7B, VA Denver.” I don’t understand any of this, but I know one thing with absolute certainty. That’s Jake’s handwriting. I’m 72 years old. I’ve got a bad hip, blood pressure, medication, and no good reason to be alive, except I’m too stubborn to die. I’ve got nothing left to lose. I pack a bag.
The drive from Austin to Denver is 19 hours. I stop once for gas, once for coffee, and not at all for sleep. I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see that note, that handwriting. I call the VA hospital from the road. Denver VA Medical Center. How can I help you? I need information about ward 7B. Pause. Sir, I don’t show a ward 7B in our directory.
What do you mean you don’t show it? Our hospital has wards 1 through 6 plus ICU. No 7B. That’s impossible. I have Sir, are you a veteran? My son was Marine, killed in Iraq in 2007. Another pause. Longer this time. Sir, can you hold please? Music. Bureaucratic hold music. I’m driving 75 mph through Kansas with my phone on speaker and they’re playing smooth jazz.
A different voice comes on. Male, older. Careful. Mr. Donovan. I almost swerve off the road. How do you know my name, sir? I need you to listen carefully. When you arrive in Denver, park in the main lot. Enter through the east entrance. Tell the desk you’re here for a consultation with Dr. Morrison. They’ll know what to do.
Do not mention Ward 7B to anyone else. Do you understand? Who is this? Do you understand, sir? Yes, but drive safely, Mr. Donovan. We’ll see you soon. He hangs up. I drive faster. I arrive in Denver at 3:00 in the morning. The VA hospital is massive, sprawling, mostly dark at this hour. I park where they told me to.
My hip is screaming from 19 hours in a car, but I barely notice. The east entrance is locked. There’s a buzzer. I press it. A security guard appears. Heavy set, tired looking. He unlocks the door. Can I help you? I’m here for a consultation with Dr. Morrison. His entire demeanor changes. The tired look vanishes. He stands straighter. Mr. Donovan. Yes.
ID, please. I show him my driver’s license. He studies it, studies me, then nods. Follow me, sir. He doesn’t take me through the main hospital. Instead, we go down a side corridor. I wouldn’t have noticed through a door marked authorized personnel. Only down a stairwell that smells like concrete and old paint. Where are we going? W 7B isn’t listed in the directory for a reason, sir.
It’s a specialized unit. Specialized how? He doesn’t answer. We go down two flights, then through another door that requires his badge. Another corridor. This one better lit. Cleaner. Medical equipment. I don’t recognize. Nurses at a station who glance up. See me. Look away quickly. We stop at a door. Room. Zeven.
Beaverine. He’s been waiting for you. The guard says quietly. Take all the time you need. He walks away, leaves me standing there. I raise my hand to knock. My hand is shaking again. 17 years of grief, of acceptance, of learning to live with loss. All of it crashes into this moment. What if it’s not him? What if this is some cruel hoax? What if it is him? I [clears throat and snorts] knock.
Come in, Dad. That voice. God, that voice. I open the door. The man sitting in the chair by the window is both familiar and foreign. He’s older, of course he is, 17 years older. There’s gray in his hair, lines around his eyes, a scar running down the left side of his face from temple to jaw. He’s thinner than I remember, but the build is right, the posture.
He stands up slowly like movement causes pain. We stare at each other. Hi, Dad. It’s him. I don’t know how. I don’t know why, but it’s him. I can see it in his eyes. The same gray green eyes that looked up at me when he was 5 years old and asked why the sky was blue. The same eyes that met mine over the dinner table when he told us he was enlisting. Jake. Yeah, Dad. It’s me.
I cross the room in three steps and pull him into my arms. He’s solid, warm, alive. He hugs me back just as hard. We stand there for a long time. I’m crying. I don’t care. I haven’t cried since the funeral, but I’m crying now. How? I finally manage. They said you were dead. I identified your body. I buried you.
I know. Sit down, Dad. This is going to take a while. We sit. He’s on the chair. I’m on the bed. I can’t stop looking at him. March 19th, 2007. He begins. The convoy, the IED, that all happened. Four of us were in that vehicle. It flipped, caught fire. Jackson and Martinez died instantly.
Reynolds died in the medevac chopper. I should have died, too. But you didn’t. No, I was thrown clear in the blast. Severe traumatic brain injury, burns, shrapnel wounds. They got me to a field hospital, then to Land Stool in Germany. I was in a coma for 2 months, but they told us you were dead because they thought I was. The body in that vehicle, the one you identified, that was Reynolds.
He and I were the same height, same build, the blast and fire. There wasn’t much left to identify. They matched the dog tags they found nearby. They matched the dental records. How do you mix up dental records? Chaos. Four Marines dead, two more critical. Records got crossed. It happens more than you’d think in combat zones.
By the time someone realized the mistake, I was already in Germany, still in a coma, no ID. They literally didn’t know who I was. I’m trying to process this. So, when did they figure it out? He looks away. Not for 6 months. And by then, things were complicated. Complicated how. Dad, the blast didn’t just hurt me physically. I had a severe TBI, traumatic brain injury.
When I woke up, I couldn’t remember anything. Not my name, not my unit, not my life, nothing. Complete retrograde amnesia. For how long? 2 years? I feel like I’ve been punched. 2 years. They kept me in medical facilities in Germany, then eventually transferred me back to the States. Walter Reed, then here. I had no ID, no records that matched, no family looking for me because everyone thought I was dead.
I became John Doe #447, a marine who existed but didn’t exist. But your fingerprints badly burned. The prints they had on file were too damaged to match. And no one was looking for me, Dad. I was already buried. Case closed. How did you get your memory back? Slowly. Fragments at first. A smell, a sound, a dream.
They had me in therapy working with psychologists. About 2 years in, I started remembering my name first, then bits of my childhood, then you and mom. His voice breaks on mom. She passed, didn’t she? I can see it in your face. I nod. Can’t speak. When? 3 years after we buried you. Cancer. He closes his eyes. Tears run down his cheeks. I’m sorry, God.
Dad, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you contact us as soon as you remembered? I wanted to every single day. I wanted to, but it wasn’t that simple. By the time my memory came back enough to know who I was, I’d been declared dead for over 2 years. There were complications. What kind of complications? He’s quiet for a long moment.
When he speaks, his voice is different. Harder. The Marine Corps and certain government agencies became very interested in John Doe #447 once they realized he was actually Jake Donovan, combat engineer with specialized explosive ordinance disposal training who was supposed to be dead. I’d already been through extensive rehabilitation.
I had new skills, new training from the therapies, and I had the perfect cover. I was officially deceased. Understanding hits me like a freight train. They recruited you. They gave me a choice. sort of. I could resurface, go through the nightmare of explaining how I was alive, disrupt your lives, deal with the media circus, or I could stay dead and serve my country in ways that required someone who didn’t officially exist.
You became a ghost. We don’t call it that, but yeah, I spent the next 10 years doing work I can never tell you about in places I can never name. I saved lives, Dad. A lot of lives. The work mattered. It was important, but you couldn’t contact us. No, the whole point was that Jake Donovan was dead. Any contact risked the mission, risked other people’s lives, so I stayed dead.
I wrote letters I never sent. I called your number just to hear your voice on the answering machine, then hung up. Every Sunday, I knew you were at my grave, and I couldn’t go to you. Why now? Why contact me after 17 years? because I’m done. 3 months ago, I finished my last mission. I’m officially retired from the program, medical retirement.
Actually, the TBI left permanent damage. I have seizures sometimes, migraines. My memory still has gaps. They can’t use me anymore, so they’re letting me go. Letting you go with conditions. I can’t reveal classified information. I can’t go public. I can never be Jake Donovan again. That name is on a headstone and it has to stay there.
But they’re giving me a new identity, a full package. Social security number, work history, everything. I can have a life again. Just not my old life. So, who are you now officially? Jacob Morrison. No relation to Jake Donovan, a veteran with medical discharge, relocated to Denver for VA care. That’s the story. and me. He looks at me and I see the hope and fear waring in his eyes.
I shouldn’t have contacted you. It violates the agreement. But I couldn’t, Dad. I couldn’t let you die thinking I was gone. I couldn’t let you spend the rest of your life visiting an empty grave. You deserve to know. What are you asking me? I’m asking if you can accept this. I’m asking if you can have a son named Jacob Morrison instead of Jake Donovan.
I’m asking if you can keep this secret because if it gets out it could put people at risk. People still in the field depending on the work I did. People would ask questions. Yes. Why didn’t you tell anyone for 17 years? Why accept it now? The scrutiny would be intense for both of us. So you stay dead. Jake Donovan stays dead.
But Jacob Morrison could really use a father. I look at him. This man who is my son but isn’t. who died but didn’t, who I buried but shouldn’t have. I think about the last 17 years, the grief, the loss, the empty Sundays at a grave that holds the wrong body. I think about what I have now, a house too big, no family, no purpose except survival.
And I think about what I could have, my son, alive, here, real. What would it look like? I ask. You’d move to Denver. We’d say you met a veteran at the VA, became friends. That’s not unusual. Lots of families of the fallen connect with living vets. Eventually, I become like a son to you. We build a relationship.
To everyone else, it’s a beautiful story about healing and found family. Only we know the truth. I’d have to leave Texas. Yes. Leave your mother’s grave. Leave your grave. I know what I’m asking, Dad. It’s not fair. Fair? I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. Nothing about this is fair. But you’re alive. You’re here.
That’s all that matters. So, you’ll do it. I stand up, walk to him, put my hand on his shoulder, feel the warmth, the solidity, the reality of him. Son, I’ve spent 17 years dead inside. 17 years going through motions. Your mother is gone. My friends are dying or dead. That house, that grave, they’re just markers for a past that’s over. But you’re here.
You’re alive. You’re my future. It won’t be easy. Nothing worth having ever is. You said you wanted to tell me something important the last time we talked in that last letter. You remember? He nods. Yeah. I was going to tell you that I’d been accepted into a special unit. It was a promotion, an honor. I was proud.
I wanted you to be proud. I am proud. Everything you’ve done, everything you’ve sacrificed. I’m proud of you, Jake. I’m proud of Jacob Morrison, too. Whoever you are now, whatever name you use, you’re my son. That doesn’t change. He stands, hugs me again. We hold on like we’re both drowning, and each other is the only solid thing in the world.
There’s a house for sale three blocks from here, he says quietly. Two-bedroom, one bath, small but nice. VA loan available. You’ve thought this through for three months. Every detail. I just needed to know if you’d be willing. When can we see it? Tomorrow. Then tomorrow it is. We talk through the night. He tells me what he can about the last 17 years. Vague outlines.
Nothing classified, but enough for me to understand. the injuries, the recovery, the work, the loneliness of being a ghost, the weight of knowing I was out there grieving while he couldn’t do anything about it. I tell him about his mother, how much she loved him, how the loss broke her, how she died with his picture in her hands.
I wish I could have said goodbye, he says. You can, not to the grave, but to her. We’ll do it together in our own way. How we’ll live, son? We’ll live the life she wanted for you. We’ll go fishing in Montana. We’ll have dinners together. We’ll build something new. That’s how we honor her by not giving up.
Dawn breaks through the window. I’m exhausted but more awake than I’ve been in 17 years. I should let you rest, Jake. Jacob says the house showing is at 10:00. I’m not going anywhere. I just got you back. He smiles. It’s not the smile I remember. It’s older, sadder, weighted with things I’ll never know. But it’s his smile. Dad. Yeah, I’m sorry for all of it.
For the pain, for the years, for everything. Don’t be sorry for surviving. Don’t ever be sorry for that. I buy the house. Two-bedroom, one bath, three blocks from the VA hospital. I sell the house in Texas. Pack up 17 years of life into boxes. I take Jake’s letters, his photos, his dog tags, the real ones, the ones they gave me at Dover.
I take the flag from his funeral. I take my wife’s ashes. I don’t visit the grave one last time. There’s nothing there I need. The man I buried isn’t there. He never was. On moving day, Jacob helps me unpack. We set up the spare room together. He hangs a picture of him in his Marine uniform. A different photo than the ones I had from after the deployment after the blast when he was someone else.
People will ask about this. I say at the VA around town. Let them. We’ll say you knew a marine who died. You keep his picture to honor him. That’s true enough. We establish a routine. Sunday mornings we have breakfast together. Wednesday evenings, we watch baseball. Once a month, we drive up to a lake in Wyoming and fish just like I promised 17 years ago.
People at the VA see us together and smile. They understand this relationship. A grieving father, a wounded veteran, two people who found family and shared loss. They don’t know the secret, and they don’t need to. I’m not going to lie and say it’s perfect. Jacob has bad days. The seizures, the migraines, the PTSD from things he can’t tell me about.
Sometimes he’s distant, locked in memories I can’t access. Sometimes I forget and call him Jake, and we both flinch. But he’s alive. He’s here. And after 17 years of talking to a gravestone, I’ll take complicated and difficult over dead and buried any day. On the one-year anniversary of his first letter, we drive to Montana.
The same cabin I’d reserved in 2007, the one Jake never made it to. I rebooked it for us. We fish in silence for hours. The sun is setting, painting the sky orange and pink, just like it did the day that package arrived. “Do you regret it?” he asks suddenly. Leaving everything behind for this? I reel in my line.
Look at him. Really look at him. My son, older now, scarred, changed, but unmistakably mine. I left behind ghosts, I say. I came here for you. No regrets. What if someone finds out? What if the truth comes out? Then we deal with it together. But until then, we have this. We have now. That’s enough. He nods, casts his line back out. Hey, Dad. Yeah.
Thanks for coming to Denver. Thanks for not giving up on me, son. You’re my flesh and blood. I’d go to the ends of the earth for you. Denver was just the start. We fish until dark. I catch two trout. He catches three. We cook them over a fire outside the cabin and eat under stars that are brighter than anything in Texas.
That night, lying in my bunk, listening to him breathe in the other room, alive, real. Here I think about the package that changed everything. Those dog tags. That note. I think about my wife, about what she’d say if she knew. I think she’d understand. I think she’d be happy that I’m not alone anymore. That I found our son, even if he comes with a different name and a history I’ll never fully know.
I think about the grave in Killing, the one I’ll probably never visit again. There’s a body in it, but it’s not Jake’s. It never was. Someone else’s son is buried there. Probably still unidentified, still a mystery. I should feel guilty about that, but I don’t. [music] He’s honored there. He’s remembered. That’s more than some get. And I think about the future.
However many years I have left, I won’t spend them alone. I won’t spend them stuck in the past, drowning in might have bins. I got my son back. Not the way I expected, not the way I would have chosen, but I got him back. And in the end, that’s all that matters. The sun will come up tomorrow and he’ll still be here.
We’ll have coffee. We’ll talk about nothing and everything. We’ll build a life that looks nothing like the one I planned, but is better than the one I had because he’s alive. And so am I. Finally, after 17 years, so am
