After my mother passed away, I found it difficult to sleep. One night, around 2 a.m., I woke up to see my 8-year-old son sitting quietly on the edge of my bed, his small figure outlined by the dim glow from the hallway. I blinked a few times, adjusting to the sight, and asked, “Are you okay, sweetheart? Why are you up?”

He looked at me with his big, concerned eyes and said, “I’m staying awake in case you wake up really sad and need an emergency hug from me.” His words melted my heart. Even in his innocence, he understood my grief.