I’m 40, a single mom to two kids. My son Caleb, 12, lost his best friend Louis to cancer last year. They were inseparable—Little League teammates, weekend sleepovers, matching Halloween costumes. After the funeral, Caleb shut himself in his room, clutching Louis’s old baseball glove. He barely spoke for weeks, therapy helping only a little. Then one night, he said, “Mom, Louis deserves a headstone. And a night where everyone can remember him.” His idea was beautiful, and so him.
That summer, while other kids played, Caleb worked. He mowed lawns, walked dogs, washed cars, even gave up his birthday money, saving every crumpled bill in a shoebox under his bed. “Mom! $370 now!” he’d beam. His neighbors chipped in, inspired by his mission. Then disaster struck: a small fire in our laundry room destroyed the shoebox—months of sweat, hope, and love reduced to ashes. Caleb fell to his knees, sobbing, whispering, “I promised Louis. I promised.”
