While three grown men laughed and pinned him down, my eight-year-old son was nearly b:eat:en to d:ea:th in his grandfather’s driveway. Rushing to the emergency room, all I heard the doctors whispering were terrifying words like brain swelling and concussion…
I stood on the crest of the hill, watching my son pedal furiously down a sun-dappled path on his bright yellow bicycle, the golden retriever chasing his tires. He was laughing—a loud, unabashed sound that echoed through the valley and chased away whatever shadows remained.
