A year after my husband, Keith, died, my family still felt lost without him. Of our three children, seven-year-old Matthew seemed the least equipped to deal with his shattered faith. For reasons I could not figure out, he became unusually attached to a blue coat I’d bought at a thrift store. North Texas winters are unpredictable, but even on warmer days, Matthew wrapped himself in it.
Then it disappeared. We checked his room, the closets, called his school. “It’s gone, Mom,” Matthew said. I wiped his tears and held him close. There was nothing I could do to console him. After losing his dad, even this small loss seemed unbearable.
We left Texas for Idaho, seeking a change. It wasn’t for us. Six months later we moved to a Dallas suburb a good 20 miles from our old neighborhood. Even back home in Texas nothing felt familiar anymore without Keith.
Then, after Matthew’s first day at his new elementary school, he came home with a smile I hadn’t seen in a very long time. “Mom! Mom!” he shouted. “I found it! My blue coat!” He claimed it was on a shelf in his classroom.
“Sweetie, there are a lot of blue coats,” I told Matthew. That coat had been lost more than a year before, miles away.
“I know it’s mine,” he insisted. “No one knows where it came from. I even asked the teacher.”
“All right,” I said, giving in. “Bring it home and we’ll see.”
The next day after school, Matthew pulled the coat out of his backpack. I could see how he had been confused. Anyone might have mistaken it for his old coat. The pockets were even a bit worn around the edges from some other boy plunging his hands in just as Matthew used to do.
I pulled down the tag to check the size. Written on it was a name. Matthew. In my handwriting.
