I apologized for the problem they were facing, thanked her, wished them the best, and we walked home in silence.
But that wasn’t the end of it.
That night, Ethan didn’t turn on his games or scroll on his phone. He sat at the kitchen table with a pencil and a stack of paper. He started sketching.
My son’s dad had taught him how to build things before he passed away three months ago. It was small projects at first. At birdhouse. A shelf. Then bigger things. Ethan loved it!
I watched him now, hunched over, focused.
“What are you doing?”
He didn’t look up. “I think I can build a ramp.”
The following day, after school, Ethan emptied his savings jar onto the table.
Corners. Bills. Everything he had.
“That’s for your new bicycle,” I said carefully.
“I know.”
“Are you sure about this?”
