Thursday was our pizza night, so I recall the accident. We barely got into the driveway when the phone rang. My son Micah remained transfixed on the porch when I told him Zayden’s parents were gone. Sudden automobile collision. No warning. Just gone.

At first, Micah was silent. He sat peacefully on the stairs till nightfall. In a whisper, he whispered, “Where will Zayden go?”

First time I watched my kid weep in a manner that rocked me—grief that filled his body and took his breath away. The following day at the hospital, Zayden sat peacefully in a plastic chair with a beloved teddy bear, looking at the floor. Micah went to Zayden and hugged him firmly as he entered.

“I will care for him,” Micah said. He can live with us.”

The system has its own methods. Though polite, the caseworker said Zayden would be placed with a temporary foster family until long-term arrangements were formed.

Micah was heartbroken. He implored. Trying to reason. Each night he wept to sleep. However, the hall-end room remained unoccupied.

Micah didn’t realize we were working hard behind the scenes.

Interviews, background checks, training, and mounds of paperwork appeared to increase. Calls and emails late at night and early in the morning overtook us. We didn’t tell Micah, afraid it may fail.

Finally, after months, we summoned him outdoors.

He muttered like a 9-year-old and followed me and my spouse. “What is it?” he asked.

We pointed to the driveway.

Standing with the same teddy bear was Zayden.

He had a somewhat too-large backpack. His sneakers were scuffed. When he spotted Micah, his eyes lit up, and he sprinted like he hadn’t run in weeks.

Micah greeted him halfway, arms outstretched, tears flowing. They hugged so fiercely they may explode.

“Are you staying?” Micah asks.

I said, “Permanently,” my voice breaking.

Then came laughing, eager voices, and a stream of questions, most of which we couldn’t answer. We still allowed them room. Pokémon, spaghetti, and ghosts were discussed.

Zayden slept on Micah’s bed with the teddy bear between them. I watched from the doorway. Like something broken had quietly been fixed, it felt natural.

We had no clue what was coming.

All appeared well at first. It felt nearly perfect. The lads behaved like long-lost brothers. Mornings at school were easier. Dinner roared with laughter. Weekends were filled with soccer and biking.

Cracks appeared slowly.

Zayden had dreams with raw vocal screaming. He hated loud sounds. He avoided autos solely. We occasionally found him rocking in the closet while we believed he was playing.

Micah stayed with him. He protected Zayden—always vigilant and ready. Micah heard unpleasant school comments. If Zayden forgot his lines in the school play, Micah whispered them beneath the curtain.

It touched. It was strong. It was also heavy.

I pulled Micah aside one night. “You know it’s okay to be a kid sometimes, right? I asked softly.
He glanced down. “I promised.”

“To whom?”

Shrugging. To God. I visited Zayden in the hospital. I promised everlasting protection if he went home.”

Because Micah reminded me so much of myself, my heart hurt unexpectedly. How love makes us take on more than we can handle.

Children shouldn’t bear that much weight.

That weekend, we enrolled both sons in treatment. They first despised it. Called it dull. Complained the therapist smelled like raisins. Something changed over time.

Zayden described the collision, saying he saw the other vehicle approaching but couldn’t shout. How he woke up bewildered and alone in the hospital.

Micah revealed his anxieties, saying he missed our calm pancake Saturdays. He feared Zayden might leave again if he messed up.

There were tears everywhere. Healing doesn’t usually happen dramatically. It sometimes dwells in peaceful periods. Just like Zayden finally sleeping through the night. Or Micah attending a sleepover after months of refusal.

Then something unexpected occurred.
Eight months after Zayden moved in, a Missouri lady called. She presented herself as Zayden’s aunt, his mother’s half-sister. Although they had been separated for years, she searched for him after hearing about the disaster.

She wanted to meet.

Shocked.

The caseworker checked everything. She passed all background checks. Her neighborhood was nice. No problems. Most importantly, she was family.

Micah heard our chat. “Will she take him?”

Was unsure how to answer. She had a greater legal claim.

Zayden was sat down and told everything. His hands shook. Am I required to leave?

“No,” I said. “We think you should meet her. To watch.”

The next week’s visit was planned. Anxious. Micah hardly ate. Zayden stayed awake.

However, she came.

Her name was Helena. Late thirties. Soft eyes. She carried Zayden’s mother’s adolescent scrapbook. She delivered his dad’s favorite CDs in a box. She didn’t force. She sat opposite from him and said, “I only recently discovered you. But I’m pleased I do now.”

Zayden listened. Asking inquiries. He seldom smiled but was not shy. He asked to see her again that night. We planned additional visits. Eventually, he opened up to her.

Micah was quiet.

When I tucked him in one night, he said, “If she takes him, I will not have a best friend anymore.”

Shaking my head. No one can erase what you two share. No matter his location.”

“I made a promise,” he said.

“I know,” I said. Love sometimes requires giving someone more people to love back.”

He nodded slowly, eyes moist.

Zayden decided months later.

He wanted to live with us but see Helena during class breaks.

This was best of both choices. It works.

Helena joined family. Soccer matches she attended. Halloween costume assistance. Every small holiday, I sent the lads cards.

Years passed. The nightmares ended. The closet was empty. And Micah? He learned the value of battling for others.

Zayden never gave up his teddy. It was delivered to Micah one day.

“Why?” Micah asked, confused.

“Because I am well now,” Zayden said. “You supported me when I was weak. You can also drop that burden.”

Micah cried again, but cathartic tears.

The sort that releases everything.

Both are in high school. Taller than me. Finishing each other’s sentences. Still joking. But today, their laughing is light. They no longer bear previous baggage.

Only a reminder.

A reminder that sometimes those who help us through our worst storms teach us to endure.

A 9-year-old can sometimes keep a promise.