When my son found a filthy, one-eyed teddy bear half-buried in the grass, I didn’t want to take it home, but my son wouldn’t let go. That night, when I brushed its belly as he slept, something inside clicked, and a trembling voice whispered his name, begging for help. Every Sunday, my son, Mark, and I would take a walk together.We’d been taking these walks for two years now, ever since my wife died. No matter how tired I was, no matter how much paperwork waited on my desk or how many emails sat unanswered, we walked. Just the two of us.

Mark needed it. Heck, I needed it too. He’s a bright kid.

Gentle in ways that scare me sometimes because the world isn’t gentle back. Since his mom passed, everything feels sharper for him. He flinches at sudden noises and asks questions I don’t know how to answer.

He watches me like he’s waiting for me to disappear, too. Some days I still forget she’s gone. I’ll turn to tell her something, and the space where she stood is just empty air.

Those moments gut me every time, but I can’t let Mark see that. I can’t let him know that his dad is 36 years old and doesn’t have a clue how to do this alone. So we walk.

That day, the sky was that pale blue that looks washed out. A few other families were out, along with the usual assortment of couples walking dogs and joggers with earbuds. It was a perfectly normal day, until it wasn’t.

We were halfway around the lake when he stopped so suddenly that I almost bumped into him. “Mark?”

He didn’t answer. He was staring down into the grass like he’d spotted buried treasure.

Then he crouched, reached out, and pulled something free from the weeds. A teddy bear. And not just any teddy bear — this thing was disgusting.

The fur was matted and muddy, one eye was missing, and there was a big rip in its back. It looked like the stuffing was lumpy and dry. Anyone else would have left it there, but Mark clutched it tight against his chest.

“Buddy,” I crouched beside him, “it’s dirty. Really dirty. Let’s leave it, okay?”

His fingers tightened around the bear.

“We can’t leave him. He’s special.”

His breathing changed. I saw that look in his eyes — the faraway, “about to cry, but trying so hard not to” look that broke me every single time.

When we got back, I spent an hour cleaning that bear. Maybe longer. It would’ve gone faster if I’d soaked the teddy, but Mark asked if he’d be able to sleep with it that night.