When my twelve-year-old son stumbled in dripping wet, I wasn’t immediately proud. On the contrary, I was pretty annoyed. Sure, he was soaked, but that’s not what got me. It was the missing umbrella, the one he should’ve had. This wasn’t any cheap umbrella you get at a convenience store; it belonged to his dad. Darren passed away two years ago from a long, brutal illness that took nearly everything we had.
Most of the things we were actually left with weren’t of any value, but that umbrella stood out. Bright blue with a wooden handle and an annoying button that never worked right. Well, it still held a special spot in our hearts. See, Darren had etched Eli’s name inside, since our kid constantly lost anything that wasn’t attached at the hip—coats, lunches, drinks. Yet, that umbrella stuck around.
So imagine my surprise when I opened the door to a deluge and spotted Eli without it. I asked where it was, and even before he spoke, his expression told the story. When he admitted giving it away, I stared, flabbergasted. What did you mean? He looked super guilty but not defensive—dead sad instead. Turns out, he saw a pregnant lady at the bus stop. That’s all I got from him.
It was pouring rain, her coat was soaked through, and she was crying. My anger began to ease up, yet I wasn’t ready to call it quits just yet. “Did you really give her your umbrella?” I questioned. He nodded, then added he’d also handed over his jacket because she looked like she was freezing.
I was really trying to stay mad, too. So, when he mumbled his responses, it threw me off. My son wasn’t asking for admiration, and he thought giving the coat away was no big deal. For him, helping her made perfect sense; he saw no other choice. Reminding him the umbrella belonged to his dad, I spoke again. His voice broke a tiny bit when he admitted he knew that, even though he wished he didn’t have to give it up.
