The moment that followed wasn’t simple, but it was honest. My son listened, torn between past hurt and present understanding, and finally offered the one thing he knew she had never been able to give herself: a chance to begin again. In time, we helped her find stability, medical care, and the support she had long lacked. That Thanksgiving, she joined us at a table where sorrow and gratitude sat side by side. My daughter placed his old stuffed dinosaur in front of her plate, a quiet symbol of both loss and hope. When we raised our glasses, it wasn’t just for second chances—it was for the courage it takes to accept them. Looking around at the family we had built through resilience and love, I realized that mending a heart is not always a medical act. Sometimes, it is the choice to stay, to forgive, and to let compassion shape the life that follows.
