Later that night, I stood in my kitchen, holding the journal.
“I’m so sorry, Daniel,” I whispered. “I didn’t know. I should’ve tried.”
That moment didn’t bring him back. But it began something new.
Healing.
A few weeks later, I started volunteering at a youth shelter. I listened to their stories. I made sure no one ever felt like they didn’t belong.
It was the least I could do.
