For twenty-two years, my husband forbade me from opening his red toolbox.
One stormy night, I finally did.
Inside were drawings, photographs, and an obituary for Nathan—the young son Joe had lost to cancer and never mentioned.
When he returned, I took his hand.
“You don’t have to carry this alone.”
He wept, admitting he’d hidden the memories because saying Nathan’s name hurt too much. He’d also been quietly selling handmade woodwork to support children’s cancer charities.
Now, when storms come, we sit beside the toolbox, light a candle, and say Nathan’s name together.