Noah was only eleven when David died.
Afterward, I worried constantly about how my boy was coping.
Sometimes he talked about his father.
Other times, he avoided mentioning him for weeks.
I never wanted to push him.
So I watched quietly, hoping that his smiles meant he was healing.
And whenever I saw him laughing with Grace, I felt a little less afraid.
Months passed.
Finally, Noah’s hair reached the required length.
I took him to the organization, where a stylist carefully divided it into sections.
She smiled at him.
“Are you absolutely sure you’re ready?”
Noah grinned.
“Please cut it before I accidentally eat any more of it.”
The stylist laughed.
Then the scissors began to work.
As his long hair fell away, I felt an unexpected tightness in my chest.
Those months had represented so much more than a hairstyle.
They had been months of determination, friendship, and a promise kept without complaint.
