NEW PLAYTHINGS MATERIALIZED AT MY CHILD’S BURIAL SITE EVERY DAY, HENCE I RESOLVED TO DISCOVER THE PERSON RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS.
My offspring perished in a motorbike mishap at 21. The instant I received that phone call from the police, I couldn’t accept it. It seemed surreal, yet it was factual. Regret overwhelmed me—Three years had passed without us talking. We had a massive argument when he turned 18 regarding his professional path, and he abruptly exited our lives. My spouse and I attempted to connect, however he totally excluded us. We persisted in hoping he would return when he felt prepared… yet that day never arrived. Following his demise, I vowed to frequent his burial site daily. During my initial visit, I discovered a plush bear there. I assumed it was accidentally placed there, hence I removed it, substituting it with blossoms. However the following day, additional playthings were present—a dozen of them. It was peculiar, and I was unable to determine the perpetrator or the motive. Subsequently, on the third day, I saw a woman stationed at his burial site, depositing another plaything. She was preparing to depart when I hailed her.“Excuse me,” I called out, my voice trembling slightly. She turned, startled, her eyes widening behind large sunglasses. She was young, maybe in her early twenties, with a gentle face framed by dark hair. She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice soft and hesitant.
“Yes,” I said, approaching her. “I’ve noticed toys appearing here every day… and I saw you leave one just now. Could you tell me why?”
Her eyes welled up behind the sunglasses. She took a deep breath and removed them, revealing red-rimmed, tearful eyes. “You… you’re his mother, aren’t you?” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
I nodded, my heart pounding in my chest. “Yes, I am. And you are…?”
“My name is Clara,” she said, her voice barely audible. “I… I was… I am… I was his girlfriend.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions. A girlfriend. My son had a girlfriend. And I had never known. The regret intensified, a fresh wave of pain washing over me.
“He… he never mentioned you,” I managed to say, my voice strained.
Clara looked down at the ground, her shoulders slumping. “I know,” she whispered. “It was… complicated. After… after your argument, he… he pushed everyone away. But… but he and I… we stayed in touch. Secretly.”
She looked up at the grave, her hand gently touching the small plush race car she had just placed there. “He loved cars,” she said, a faint smile touching her lips. “He always dreamt of restoring a classic Mustang. We used to talk about it for hours.”
My breath hitched. A Mustang. Dreams I never knew my son harbored, a life I was excluded from.
Clara continued, her voice gaining a little strength. “After… after it happened, I just… I didn’t know what else to do. Bringing him toys… it felt like the only way I could still… connect with him. Remember him. He had such a playful spirit, even though he pretended to be so tough sometimes.”
Tears streamed down my face now, blurring my vision. Playful spirit. My son, even in his pain and estrangement, still held onto his inner child. And this young woman, this Clara, was honoring that part of him.
“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice choked with emotion. “Thank you for… for remembering him like this. For… for loving him.”
Clara looked at me, her eyes mirroring my own grief, but also holding a flicker of something else – understanding, perhaps, or even forgiveness. “He loved you too,” she said softly. “Deeply. Even though things were… difficult. He talked about you sometimes. He missed you both.”
Her words were a balm to my wounded heart. A small piece of the puzzle of my son’s life, finally revealed. The toys weren’t just random acts of kindness; they were expressions of love, of memory, of a connection I had been unknowingly sharing.
We stood there in silence for a few moments, two women united by grief and love for the same young man. Then, Clara reached out and gently touched my arm. “I should go,” she said softly. “But… maybe… maybe I could come back sometime? And… and we could talk more about him?”
I nodded, tears still flowing. “Yes,” I said, my voice stronger now, filled with a fragile hope. “Yes, I would like that very much.”
Clara gave me a small, sad smile, placed her sunglasses back on, and walked away. I watched her go, a sense of profound sadness mixed with a strange sense of peace settling over me. The toys were still there, but now they had a meaning. They were not just reminders of loss, but also unexpected bridges to a part of my son’s life I had never known, and a connection to a young woman who, in her own way, was helping me to grieve and, perhaps, to heal. For the first time since the terrible phone call, a tiny seed of hope began to sprout in the barren landscape of my grief. Maybe, just maybe, from this shared sorrow, something beautiful could eventually grow. And maybe, through Clara, I could finally piece together the missing years and truly understand the son I had lost, but never stopped loving.