Working at a small diner means sometimes getting creative with childcare. When my babysitter canceled last minute, I brought my four-year-old son, Micah, with me. It was Halloween, and he proudly wore his little firefighter costume. I set him up with crayons and a grilled cheese at a back booth, reminding him to stay put during the dinner rush.
At some point, I glanced over—and he was gone. Panic hit. I called his name, checked the backroom, under tables, and finally ran to the kitchen.
That’s where I saw him—in the arms of a real firefighter. A tall man in uniform, holding Micah as silent tears streamed down his face. The whole kitchen had gone still.
Before I could speak, Micah looked up at him and said, “It’s okay. You saved them. My daddy says you’re a hero.”
The firefighter’s breath caught. He hugged Micah a little tighter before gently setting him down.
My husband—Micah’s dad—was a firefighter too. He died in a fire last year. I’d never shared the full story with Micah, only that his dad was brave. Somehow, he understood more than I realized.
The firefighter knelt down and asked, “Who’s your daddy?”
Micah answered, and the man’s face crumbled. “He was my best friend,” he whispered. “He saved my life.”
Later, I learned his name was Tyler. Before he left, he handed Micah a small silver badge. “Your dad gave this to me for luck. I think it belongs with you now.”
Micah beamed. “Thank you! I’ll keep it forever.”
That night, as I tucked him in, he held the badge close. “Mommy, Daddy’s still watching, right?”
I kissed his forehead. “Always.”
In that moment, I realized love doesn’t end. It lingers—in memories, in unexpected moments, in small silver badges. And sometimes, it finds its way back to remind us we’re not alone.