In March 2019, my adult son passed away. That December, Brenna, a young woman he mentored, sent me his silver necklace—the one his grandfather gave him at eighteen. A note explained he’d given it to her for strength during a dark time, and now she felt ready to return it. Holding it, I cried—not from pain, but from a sacred comfort.

We started corresponding. Brenna shared how my son believed in her when she doubted herself, helping her secure internships and a dream job. Through her stories, I discovered his quiet kindnesses: sharing granola bars, helping a classmate recover her thesis, never seeking credit.

Brenna visited, bringing a box of his things—his pen, journal, beanie, and a goodbye letter he wrote to me, apologizing for distance and thanking me for my firmness. “Don’t let my story end with silence,” he wrote. “There’s still more good to do.”

Inspired, Brenna and I created The Way Forward Fund, a scholarship in his name. Stories poured in about his impact—teaching someone to tie a tie, refilling snack baskets. The first scholarship went to Elias, who echoed my son’s words unknowingly, learned from a sticker made from his journal.

Grief softened into a whisper. His necklace, the fund, and strangers’ stories carry his light. His story ripples on, guiding us forward.