Sometimes I still think about that night. About the laughter. About the woman who said, “just like his mother.”
The truth is, she was right.
He is just like me.
He chose love when it would have been easier to run.
He was scared—and he stayed anyway.
And standing there in that auditorium, I realized something I had been carrying for eighteen years finally loosened its grip.
That story never belonged to the people who judged us.
It belonged to us.
And my son made sure the last word was never going to be laughter.
It was truth.
