I was always proud of the kind and caring young man my son was becoming. Then, an unexpected phone call made me question everything I thought I knew about him.
It was a morning like any other, like the ones I had begun to cherish. I stood in front of the kitchen sink, watching the September light flood the countertop, and I listened to my son rummage through the pantry for the third time in ten minutes.
At 39 years old, I had learned that peace is often silence, and that it is often a gift.
"Mom, did you hide the granola bars again?"
Aaron's voice came from somewhere behind the cereal boxes.
I had learned that peace is often silence.
My son was 17 years old, he was tall, and he was always one of the nicest people I know.
He was holding an open plastic bag, as if he was packing his bags to go on a trip.
"They're on the second shelf, where they still are," I replied. "Who can eat four granola bars?"
"Lily prefers chocolate ones. The food in the hospital is inedible," Aaron said casually, as other young people might talk about going for a coffee.
He was holding an open plastic bag.
I dried my hands and watched him fill the bag with the same care he once brought to his Lego games.
Aaron had always been like that. Good grades, no problems, the kind of boy who notices when a child is sitting alone in the canteen, and who intervenes when someone is suffering.
When my son started dating Lily a year ago, I called Diane that same evening, all excited.
Diane has been one of my best friends for over a decade. Our children, well, his daughter and my son, had practically grown up together.
Aaron had always been like that.
The first time Aaron held Lily's hand at a backyard barbecue last summer, Diane and I pretended not to notice anything, then laughed and screamed with joy like college girls for an hour in the kitchen!
We were both delighted! Our children got along well, and it was clear how much they cared for each other.
Then everything changed.
Four months ago, my son's girlfriend was diagnosed with cancer.
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