After losing my husband and daughter three years ago in a crash so violent the hospital wouldn’t let me see them, it’s been just me and my son, Sam, 7. He hasn’t really spoken since the funeral. I check the locks three times a night, terrified of losing him too.
Grief had reshaped my world—I no longer trusted people, believing they could be careless. Every morning at 6 a.m., I’d watch Sam eat silently, coffee in hand, the photo of his dad moved to my bedroom so I wouldn’t have to face it constantly.
Then six months ago, a quiet man appeared on our block. Mr. Ben. Thick white beard, worn cap, bent posture. He moved slowly, humming old country songs my husband used to play. Sam noticed him immediately. “He looks like Santa,” he wrote on his tablet.
One afternoon, a stray Rottweiler jumped our fence. Before I could react, Mr. Ben threw himself in front of Sam, taking the bites. After that, he became family. Sam started talking again. For the first time in years, our house felt lighter.
Then last Saturday, I checked the security camera. Mr. Ben scratched his jaw—and the beard shifted. Zooming in, I saw it was glued on. Beneath: smooth, unwrinkled skin. He wasn’t elderly. My heart raced. I grabbed my late husband’s bat and ran outside.
“Sam, get behind me!” I shouted. Panic flashed across his face. “Wait. Please.” I lunged, ripped the beard off—and froze. The face beneath was the last person I ever expected to see. Tears blurred my vision. “WHAT DO YOU NEED FROM SAM?” I whispered.