My son died in a car accident at the age of 19—five years later, a little boy with the same birthmark under his right eye walked into my class.

" Ah good ? "

"My son loved chocolate milk," I said. "Even when he was 18, Théo would have a glass of it after dinner every night."

Mark smiled, then looked at me. "We come here every Saturday. It's a tradition."

I glanced at the other families, at the couples lost in their own mornings. I finally felt like I belonged somewhere again.

Théo took a pencil out of his pocket and began to scribble on a napkin.

"Do you know how to draw, Miss Rose?"

"I know. But I'm not very good at it."

"My son loved chocolate milk."

He chuckled. We tilted our heads together, drawing a dog and a large yellow sun. Ivy watched us, gradually letting her guard down. After a moment, she slid her teapot onto the table.

"You're having sugar, aren't you, Rose?" she asked me.

I nodded, adding two more sachets, my hands a little firmer.

Théo looked up, his eyes shining. "Are you coming next Saturday too?"

I caught Ivy's eye. She gave me a small, brave smile. "If you want."

"Are you coming next Saturday too?"

"Yes," I replied. "I would love to."

For once, I felt like the world was letting someone new take flight, right there in front of pancakes, colored pencils, and a second chance.

From now on, a living part of my son would always be with me.

And as Theo leaned against my arm, humming the same tune Owen loved so much, I knew that grief could transform into something new, something quite bright for both of us.

From now on, a living part of my son would always be with me.