When my son casually mentioned his school’s Father’s Day event, I smiled through the ache—his dad’s been gone three years. But nothing prepared me for the teacher’s call the next day, thanking me for my husband’s “amazing presentation.” I froze. What was she talking about? That morning, as the sun yawned across golden fields, I drove Tyler to school.
He held his toast like it was his shield, unaware of the war playing in my chest. “We’re doing Father’s Day presentations,” he said brightly, like the words didn’t bruise him the way they bruised me. He gave no details, just a confident grin that hid something deeper. Later, when the phone rang and the teacher gushed about how much the class loved “my husband,” I couldn’t breathe. My mind spiraled. My husband had been gone for years—laid to rest beneath quiet oak trees. So… who stood in that classroom?