I left my three-year-old son in the care of his seventeen-year-old brother while I worked an exhausting double shift at the hospital. I thought my boys were safe at home. Then my phone rang, and a police officer’s words made my blood run cold.

That evening, I sat beside Logan as Andrew climbed into our laps, giggling.

I finally understood that grief hadn’t changed my son into someone I needed to fear. It had made him someone who understood how precious every life could be.

I kissed his forehead and whispered, “Your dad would be so proud of you.”

Logan smiled through his tears.

And for the first time since we lost Daniel, our house felt a little less broken.