After my mother passed away, I struggled with sleepless nights. One night, around 2 a.m., I woke up to find my 8-year-old son sitting quietly at the edge of my bed, his small figure illuminated by the soft glow from the hallway.
Blinking in confusion, I whispered, “Sweetheart, why are you up? Are you okay?”
He gazed at me with his big, caring eyes and gently said, “I’m staying awake in case you wake up really sad and need an emergency hug from me.”
His words filled my heart. Even in his innocence, he understood my grief in the most beautiful way.