When my son came home without the umbrella his late father had given him, I thought I’d be upset. Then he told me who he gave it to. Less than 24 hours later, our front yard was filled with 47 umbrellas and a mystery that had the entire neighborhood gathering outside.

My twelve-year-old son gave away the final gift his father, Darren, had ever bought for him, and three mornings later, forty-seven opened umbrellas appeared across our front lawn.

It began the previous week, when Eli walked through the door completely soaked.

I had answered the front door with a dish towel slung over my shoulder, already irritated because the pharmacy had called once more about a prescription still listed under my late husband’s name.

Then I looked at my son.

Water ran from his hair. His shirt was plastered to him, and his lips were quivering.

“Eli,” I said, pulling him inside. “Where’s your umbrella, baby?”

He met my eyes, and my stomach clenched.

I prayed it was not the blue one. Please, not the blue one.

“It’s gone, Mom,” he whispered.