YaYa came down the stairs asking for his Dad-shirt. Just 1 hour earlier, I’d emptied his dirty clothes basket into the washing machine; tie-dyed shirt included. I offered one of the other shirts from those remaining in the closet. YaYa selected Tom’s “Lucky” Irish shirt, kissed me good night, and went off to bed wearing it.
A while later, I could hear his wailing above the music he had playing. I ran upstairs to cradle my little boy who was missing his Daddy in the worst way.
And we cried together.