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I walked out onto that stage myself, barely able to see through my own tears, and knelt down in front of my little brother right there in front of everyone, pulling him into a hug tight enough that I heard him laugh, surprised, against my shoulder.
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“You didn’t have to apologize,” I told him, quiet enough that only he could hear it over the applause. “This is the best gift anyone gave anyone tonight. I mean that completely.”
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“Really?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look at my face properly.
“Really,” I said. “Better than the portrait. Better than the shadow box. Nobody up here tonight gave their sibling five months of their entire heart carved into wood.”
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We took the box home that night, all seven charms nestled carefully inside on a bed of felt Mom had apparently helped him cut and glue in without ever once telling me what any of it was for.
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I keep it on my desk now, at college, three states away from home, close enough that it’s usually the first thing I see when I wake up and the last thing I see before I turn off my desk lamp each night.
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Teddy still works with Mr. Whitfield most Saturdays. He’s made four more pieces since prom — a small jewelry box for Mom’s birthday, a simple picture frame, two more charms he mailed me without any explanation attached, one shaped like a graduation cap for exactly the milestone he apparently already knows is coming for both of us in a few more years.
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