Fall 2025 Writing Contest RESULTS
We want to say thank you to everyone who submitted stories for the flash fiction writing contest, as well as a huge congratulations to our winner and honorable mentions! These stories might be over in a flash, but they were powerful and touching.
Grand Winner: Becky Melby, A Crack in the Fence
Honorable Mention, Best Use of Imagery: Patti Lee, Henry
Honorable Mention, Most Impact in Fewest Words: John Adinolfi, Grandpa’s Famous Pancakes
Honorable Mention, Cutest Romance: Emilee Hill, Mint and Much Ado
Honorable Mention, Best Spiritual Drama: Eric Landfried, The Battle
Honorable Mention, Best Dialogue: Robin Pobiak, Heartstrings in Autumn
You can read their pieces of flash fiction below, because everyone deserves a good story.
A CRACK IN THE FENCE
“I’m worried about her.”
I stood by the kitchen sink, staring out the window at my daughter. My daughter who should have been sitting in her fourth-grade math class.
I’d tried. New outfit. Her favorite breakfast. Carpooling with her best friend.
Hair in bubble braids, purple butterfly backpack slung over one arm, she’d made it to the car before whispering, “I can’t.”
So there she sat, for the third day in a row, on the stone bench in the flower garden, staring at our old wooden fence. It had been a color-filled haven for her over the summer, but now, the first week of September, blossoms were drooping and shedding petals like the tears dripping from my chin to the counter.
Strong arms wrapped around me.
I leaned against my husband’s chest. “We need another breakthrough.”
“God’s got this,” he whispered, his unshaven face tickling my cheek.
How many times in the past three months had those words gotten me through one more day, or hour, or minute? I’d clung to that promise in the ER, the surgical waiting room, and the ICU. I’d whispered those words as I held a still, pale hand…the hand that hadn’t been broken when the ATV overturned. I’d shouted them in my head to drown out the steady stream of terms I didn’t want to hear. Skull fracture, concussion, broken ribs, lacerations, splintered femur, infusions, infection, sedation, metal rods, plates, screws, external fixation, physical therapy, occupational therapy…
Those three words had held back the guilt—I should never have let her go with a sixteen-year-old at the wheel—and I’d repeated them to my nephew when his first question when he came to after surgery was “Did I kill Lexie?”
“God’s got this” had held me together until I heard the word I’d been waiting for.
Home.
A hospital bed and wheelchair in the living room had changed the feel of home, yet every day felt like an exhale. She was on the mend. We were together.
At first, she was inundated with calls and texts and get-well drawings. Two weeks in, we allowed short visits. Her five closest friends filled her summer days with laughter and stories-healing joy as she graduated to a walker, crutches, and finally a bright pink walking stick. We never once used the word cane. She didn’t hear that until I dropped her off on the first day of school.
“Limpy Lexi’s got a cane.”
“She walks like an old lady.”
“Old Lady Limpy Lexi.”
The taunts of two boys had drowned out the group of girls standing on the sidewalk cheering for her. She’d gotten back in the car, slammed the door, and said, “I can’t.”
“She looks like she’s talking,” my husband said. “Maybe she’s praying.”
He was right. Though she was facing away from us, her head was nodding. And then her shoulders began to shake.
“She crying.” I pulled away from the arms that held me and flew out the door. Five steps into the backyard, I froze. Laughter. A sound I hadn’t heard in days. My daughter was sitting all alone in our backyard laughing. Had she snapped?
Staying close to the house, I snuck toward the fence and hid behind an apple tree. Now there were words.
“What did you do when they called you names? Were you mad?”
Was she talking to the Lord? Asking how He’d handled being mocked and betrayed?
“I was mostly angry at first.”
I clamped my hand over my mouth to stifle a gasp. But it wasn’t God answering her. It was Mr. Evans, our new neighbor.
“How did you stop being angry?”
“I tried seeing the world through their eyes. Some were angry because I’d volunteered to fight in a war they thought our country shouldn’t have been in. Some didn’t know how to treat a man who was crippled. Like you found out, when people are mad or uncomfortable, they say stupid things.”
“Did that help? To think like them?”
“Some. But the real thing that helped was cookies.”
Another giggle. “You ate cookies when you were mad?”
“No.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “I baked cookies when I was mad. And then I shared them with the people who had called me names. The Bible says if your enemy is hungry…”
Feeling like an intruder, I slunk back to the house. Five minutes later, my little girl burst through the back door. “Mom! Do we have flour and sugar? And chocolate chips? I need them because”—she bent over to catch her breath—“because I hafta make enemy cookies for school tomorrow!”
Becky Melby has authored more than twenty-five novels and novellas. She and her husband enjoy spending time with their four sons and fifteen grandchildren, and seeing the country in their motorhome. Becky thrives on encouraging women to live out the truth that God’s mercies are new every morning.
HENRY
My cousin Ruth called early, and after I hung up, I just sat in my morning chair, hands wrapped around my cup of coffee gone cold, heart wrapped around the knot of grief in my chest. It wasn’t an unexpected grief; Aunt Jessie was ninety-five, after all. A heart has to stop beating sometime, even after two pacemakers. It wasn’t just because we loved her so much—the fun she brought into our strict upbringing, the dollar bills she secretly slipped into our poor pockets, trips to see the world we would have never seen otherwise. All the ways she had filled in the blanks in her niece’s lives, having no family of her own.
The grief knot that made me mourn so deeply was knowing that once Aunt Jessie drew her last breath, I would never see her again. Hope was not an element in this passing. She was stubbornly independent, and always had been. Ninety-five years of never needing Jesus. She gave so much to others; she was compassionate, present, loving, a rescuer, and healed my hurts in so many ways that she seemed to have the heart of Jesus. I never understood how she could be so stubborn in her rejection of eternal salvation.
A woman of science; educated in high levels of academia, she viewed life only through that lens. Science was enough. It explained everything and was the foundation of her choices. It wasn’t she didn’t believe there was a God; she just didn’t need him. Our rural southern town was filled with churches. Take your pick—Methodist, Baptist, Catholic, or Spirit filled Evangelical. Everyone wore a label. Everyone knew everybody. We all went to church. Oh, she graced a pew occasionally and played the piano at First Baptist when they needed someone. Her mind was wide open. The door to her heart stayed firmly shut.
I had shared Jesus with her with childhood innocence, in teenage fervor, and all through adulthood in gentle-to-adamant scientific debates. She always responded in love, but never without that stubborn wall that I could see in her face. Now, what I had always feared hit me like a tsunami. It was too late.
When does hope stop? With a phone call? With hospice and heart monitors? With the weariness of my soul? Aunt Jessie had always been there for me. Jesus was always there for me. Now, I had to be there for her. Hope might be the thing that perches in the soul, but it never ends until the last breath of life wings out the window. I would try. One more time.
Moving in a sigh, I emptied my cold coffee down the drain and leaned on the counter. Sun dapples drew my eyes to the window. “Hey, Henry, you need a drink? You look a bit dry.” My prolific pothos ivy bobbed in the sunlit window where it hung on for dear life. Long green tentacles crowned with waxy teardrop leaves tangled themselves through the latticed wood strips.
I filled my empty cup with water and poured it over the soil. My palm cradled a new cluster of leaves and I whispered, “Oh, Henry.” Now the tears came, running in streaks of memories down my face. I grabbed the ‘Texas is Home’ tea towel off the lattice and swiped my eyes. Henry was the greatest life-lesson Aunt Jessie ever taught me.
When I’d greeted her at my wedding shower twenty years ago, she hadn’t come with what I expected. No check with four zeros, no tickets to an exotic island. Just a small brown box with a paper towel peeking out the top. At first, I thought it was one of her little pranks to make me laugh, but when her well-worn hands tucked it firmly into mine with a small white envelope, I knew it was my gift.
“Thank you, Aunt Jessie. I know any gift from you will be wonderful.”
“Take it home and read it before you say ‘I do’. Then you’ll understand.”
Of all the plethora of beautifully wrapped gifts, I couldn’t wait to open this one. In my bedroom that night, I sniffed the white envelope, knowing it would carry the fragrance of Aunt Jessie’s Shalimar. It made me smile. Her neat, tiny cursive graced the letter inside with her signature peacock ink.
“My Dear Emma,
Our seasons together have come to an end of sorts; your love and loyalty will soon belong to another. Haven’t we had the best time of our lives together! I can’t send you away without a piece of me to keep close forever. Well, it can be forever if you will be diligent and mindful. Let me introduce you to Henry. Actually, a baby piece of Henry. I rescued him from a discarded pot long ago. I took him in, my only child. Repotted in fresh soil, he has grown in my library window ever since. With care, watering, and an occasional haircut, he’s become a healthy, cheerful greeting to my mornings. Bits of Henry have left me through the years, sent to others who needed fresh rooting in their life story, so there are lots of Henrys all over the world. I’ve taught you the science of never-ending life, so you already understand, right? Let Henry be your lesson in learning how to nurture, grow, and regenerate your marriage (be assured there will be those times). Happy new life.”
It was signed with her “I love you first, most, best,” signature. I freed Henry from the box to his temporary home in a bathroom cup. Before the wedding, tiny white roots were reaching downward. Planted in many pots and moved from home to home, I learned Aunt Jessie’s lesson about diligence, mindfulness, and regeneration.
Now, an inspiration of hope.
“Don’t worry, Henry. I’ll be gentle.” I angled the sharp blade on the thin green stem and sliced. “See? That didn’t hurt. A piece of you needs to go back to Aunt Jessie. Speak truth to her.”
Wrapped in wet paper towels and a plastic baggie, I tucked the cutting and my letter into a small box and overnighted it to Aunt Jessie in care of cousin Ruth. It would get there faster than I could make my airline reservation home to Texas, and time was everything.
My letter was my last missive of hope. I prayed my guidance in choosing each word was Divine, for so much truth had to be penned in so few words.
My Dearest Aunt Jessie,
Remember Henry? Your wedding gift to me so long ago? I can’t let you go without telling you the truths it has taught me about life. I followed your request. I was diligent, mindful. Except that one time when we went to Europe for the summer and I forgot to make provision for Henry. When I got home, he looked dead. I didn’t think there was any hope for him. It was too late. Why even try? I grieved as I cut off the brown leaves and shriveled stems. Henry had met his end. I felt the failure. Then I remembered your science lesson. How life begats life. How if we make the right choice, life for plants can be eternal. I sliced a piece of stem that had a tiny knot on it, and planted it in a glass of life-giving water. Tiny roots grew into a redeemed stem of shiny leaves. It wasn’t my old Henry; it was a new, resurrected plant, stronger and more beautiful than ever. What was dead gained eternal life. The same Creator who designed Henry in the beginning of time is the God who made us; who loves us so much that if we drink that living water, we are redeemed to eternal life. That’s the truth of your science the Creator gave you so that you could see him in it. Your wedding card said I was leaving you for a new life. Now you are leaving me. I don’t want it to be forever. I want us to be in eternity together. Forever. Please, Aunt Jessie, you purposely gave me Henry to teach me a great life lesson. Now I give a piece of him back to you. Embrace the truth; may it be revealed to your heart. Let your last breath be Jesus. I love you forever,
Emma.
Ruth called. “If you want to see her, come now. She’s asking for you.”
She is small and pale under the quilt in the hospice room. I breathe hard before I get close enough to take her withered hand. On the bedside table, a green cutting grows tiny white roots in a juice glass.
“Aunt Jessie . . . it’s Emma. I’m here.” I feel her slight grip on my hand as her eyelids barely lift. She stares at me silently. “Henry,” she whispers. Even through death’s pallor comes a contented smile. Then her last breath of earthly life wings out the window.
Patti L. Lee is a published writer, artist, and educator who focuses on creativity through the arts for children and adults. She provides editing, coaching, and workshops through Artistica Writer Services, and offers a “creative sanctuary” and mentoring for writers in her Art, Soul office in Lewiston, Idaho.
GRANDPA’S FAMOUS PANCAKES
His little cheeks are stuffed fat with the fluffy flour, egg, and milk creation. Dimpled hands scoop syrup, spreading more on face than on food.
“Gwamp, ypanc ron?”
I encourage him to chew first, then talk. He laughs, baby teeth working overtime on the mouthful.
“Grampa, why pancakes round?”
Maybe someday we’ll talk about gravity and surface tension, but for now I ask him what shape the frying pan is.
“Circle,” he shouts.
“Yes! That’s why pancakes are round,” I say, hugging him.
He rewards me with a sticky kiss that reminds me there is still sweetness in this world.
John is retired from the real world. He writes to give voice to what would otherwise be left unsaid.
MINT AND MUCH ADO
Annalise Edwards wrestled the Saran that was wrapped tighter than Fort Knox around her plate. One chocolate-covered shortbread. One cookie. Just her luck. Saran wrap never stuck this well. Grandma Edwards’ voice echoed in her mind: Once on the lips, forever on the hips.
“Sorry hips,” Annalise muttered. The minty chocolate melted into buttery shortbread as she savored the bite that warmed her better than her green tartan scarf did against the chilly autumn wind.
Three more blocks to go. Perhaps by some miracle she’d be early to book club. The rosy lights of Book Haven glowed nestled between Whisk Me Away Bakery and the Copper Plate.
Her breath puffed out in little white clouds as she jogged across the brick-paved street and dug into her messenger bag at her hip. Maybe she could chase away the guilt of the cookie if she ate an Altoid Mint.
The unexpected collision of her chest bumping into a tweed-covered bicep knocked her off balance. She fumbled with the dish. A hand shot out to rescue the plate. While the other hand gently grasped her forearm to steady her.
She dragged her gaze to meet the man. “Professor Elias Bingham?” A thank you died on her lips.
His mouth crinkled into a slow smile as he pushed his tortoise shell glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Hello to you, too.”
Was this her stodgy arch nemesis of the book club that insisted they analyze the goal, motivation and conflict of every character versus the lively trope discussions the rest of them preferred? Impressive reflexes for a man who was a savant in the realm of literature. How had she never noticed his eyes were the color of honeyed caramel? Now she suddenly had a craving for the indulgent treat.
“You have a beard,” she blurted. “I knew there was something different about you.” Annalise was thankful the scarf hid most of her blush.
“Men have been known to grow beards.” He quirked a grin at her outburst. “Mind if I walk with you?” Elias gestured to Book Haven and fell in step beside her, ever the gentleman. He moved to the outside of the sidewalk. Perfection.
Annalise stole a quick glance at his profile and nodded. Two more blocks to go. Her brain drew a blank on unique conversation starters.
“So, Professor, how are classes going?” She was off to an exceptional start.
“Please call me Elias.”
“Elias.” His given name sounded awkward on her tongue.
“Classes are going well. This semester I’m involved in assisting the theater department with their fall production of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. I run lines with the students and help paint sets.”
“I always preferred Shakespeare’s comedies to his tragedies.”
“I could get you tickets if you wanted to see it.” His voice trailed off, but his expression was hopeful.
“Oh, thank you, I’d like that.” Annalise ducked her head. What in the world is going on here?
We reached Book Haven and Elias held the door open. The bell above the door chimed when they entered. The musty smell of old books combined with mulled cider wrapped around them as they entered the store. Fairy lights, shrubberies and mismatched chairs added the ambience as book club members and patrons milled around sipping on cider and browsing books.
“Looks like we are early.” She was a little breathless from the brisk walk and her newfound realizations about the perplexing man at her side.
“You’re usually slipping in her five minutes after the meeting.” Elias winked at her.
Annalise rolled her eyes and challenged him. “How would you know? You’re always deep in dialogue of the character’s story arc when I tiptoe in.”
Elias shrugged. The tips of his ear turned red. “A combination of my eidetic memory, the fact that the scent of peppermint permeates the air whenever you’re in a room and hate to burst your bubble, but you don’t tiptoe.”
Annalise’s mouth dropped open and snapped shut. “I don’t tiptoe.” She echoed a hand on her hip.
Elias’ eyes twinkled behind his glasses. “It’s more of a tap dance.”
She giggled. “Well, you clearly know more about me that I realized.”
“I do have my best of my wit in my beard.” Elias quoted the last line of Much Ado About Nothing.
Annalise narrowed her eyes at him. “Is that your way of saying you’re smarter with facial hair?”
“I’m saying I peaked somewhere around week three of hair growth.” He quirked a brow at her.
Before she could respond, Sue, the book club leader, walked by. “Why Annalise Edwards, is the world spinning backward? You’re early! Let’s get started with tonight’s chat about Emma.”
“Nice to see you too, Sue.” Annalise shot Elias a look. “My reputation proceeds me.”
“For tardiness and tap dancing,” Elias muttered as he steered them to chairs near the fireplace. Their knees brushed.
Annalise wasn’t accustomed to have Elias this close. His nearness broke her concentration to focus on the discussion on the friends-to-lovers relationship between Mr. Knightley and Emma. Tonight, she noticed something different in his behavior. The way he leaned forward with a hand on his knee and included others in the lively debate.
The meeting ended, Elias lingered by the bookcase near the entrance.
Annalise approached Altoid tin in hand and popped one in her mouth before offering one to him. “Truce?”
As he plucked one for the metal case his fingers brushed hers. “Truce.”
The crisp air greeted them as they left the warmth of the bookstore. He cupped her elbow steering her to a bench outside.
Elias cleared his throat. “When I mentioned the play earlier, I can and will get your tickets…I was also hoping you’d accompany me as my date.”
Annalise’s heart thudded in her chest. Did he hear her heart wildly beating? “I’d like that a lot.”
He grinned. “Then let’s make much ado about something.”
My name is Emilee Hill. I’m an aspiring author who’s written a dozen short stories, a novella, and I’ve been a book reviewer/blogger for 11 years. I’m in my 3rd year of sending monthly newsletters to my subscribers.
THE BATTLE
I enter the room, invisible and whisper silent, my heart bent on evil. The arrows, crafted by the Master himself, rattle softly in the quiver strapped to my back. With a flick of my wrist, the collapsible bow in my hand unfolds to its full grandeur, gleaming like jeweled obsidian. I look over my target, and a malicious smile creeps across my face. This will be easy.
A young man sits at a desk where the soft blue glow of a monitor reflects in his spectacles. He sighs, and with a gesture born more from habit than need, pushes the glasses up his nose before sliding his hand through his thinning hair. I glance to his words on the screen, looking for something I can exploit, and I see it right away. The Writer is stuck, doubt already creeping through his mind. I’d prefer more of a challenge, but I have my orders. The Master doesn’t like to be disappointed.
I start simple, grasping the arrow marked: Anxiety. I nock the arrow to my bowstring, and its tip flares into white-hot flame. But a voice, both soft and booming at the same time, calls to me.
“Hello, Adramalech.”
I recognize the voice and turn to a being in white, radiating light, a beatific smile crossing his sanctimonious face. Maybe this mission won’t be so easy after all.
“Hello, Uriel.”
“You should leave, as any effort you expend will be fruitless. Didn’t you see that this Image Bearer has the Light?”
I spin and fix the Writer with a deep, penetrating stare. A small flame dances and flickers at the center of his soul, not as brightly as some, but there nonetheless. I turn back to Uriel.
“No matter. I have my orders.”
“But you cannot destroy him.”
“No, but even Light Bearers can fall. You’ve only given me better understanding. Now I know how to attack him.”
“All right, but before you start, you should know that my Lord has lent me His Sword for this occasion.”
Uriel’s right hand reaches to a scabbard strapped to his left side. He grips a golden hilt and pulls the Sword free, a blade of fire, rippling and crackling as its light fills the room. I cower and my knees buckle, but I force myself to stay on my feet. I will not bow to the Sword of the Lord.
Before Uriel can turn the Sword on me, I spin and fire my first arrow, the one called Anxiety. Uriel points the Sword, and a scalding wind rushes past me, a voice whispering in its depths.
“Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.”
The Sword’s wind reaches my arrow, and the arrow disintegrates before it touches the Writer, who only sits and stares at his screen. He runs both hands through his hair again, completely oblivious. Uriel offers me that infuriating smile.
“Surrender, Adramalech. You cannot win.”
With a spiteful growl escaping my lips, I grab my next arrow: Self-Doubt. With amazing speed, I nock it and send it flying. But Uriel points the sword, and it whispers again.
“Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”
My arrow doesn’t stand a chance. Without pausing, I grab the next arrow, the one marked Anger, and let it fly. The Sword whispers once more.
“Be not quick in your spirit to become angry, for anger lodges in the heart of fools.”
As the arrow crumbles under the Sword’s onslaught, my hand reaches for the next one: Despair. It launches from my bow. The Sword whispers.
“We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed…so we do not lose heart.”
As I watch the arrow disappear under the Sword’s counter-attack, I reach back to my quiver, but Uriel’s face hardens as he stares me down.
“Enough,” he says in a commanding voice, as he swings the Sword at me.
I duck under the blow, but not low enough as the Sword rakes my quiver and remaining arrows, sending them into oblivion. I roll in a somersault across the floor, as Uriel turns and swings the Sword in a downward arc. I raise my bow to block the blow, but the Sword slices through it like paper, and the shattered pieces fall from my hand. I rise to my feet, defiant, even though I know the battle is lost.
“Yield, Adramalech.”
“Never.”
Uriel looks at the Writer, who sits staring at his screen, still oblivious of the battle surrounding him. He sighs again, runs his hands through his hair again. Uriel bends down and whispers something into his ear. The Writer’s face changes, inspiration giving it a new light, and his hands fall to the keyboard where his fingers begin fluttering and tapping. Uriel looks at me and flashes that smile I hate, as he nods to the screen. I step closer to read the words, and what I see horrifies me.
I enter the room, invisible and whisper silent, my heart bent on evil.
With a hissing growl, I pull back and glare at Uriel. Fear of my Master penetrates my heart as I realize that not only have I failed, I have also inspired. There is no hope for me now.
“Now yield, Adramalech.”
Despite everything, my knee will not bow to the Lord. “Never.”
“Then have it your way.”
Uriel steps forward, thrusting the sword into the center of my being. It burns with a pain that my Master could only ever dream of. I feel the fire consuming me, destroying me.
I scream. Uriel smiles. The Writer writes.
Eric is a WV native living in NH with his wife Kristen. He specializes in speculative Christian fiction and is the author of the novel Solitary Man and its sequel, Conflicted Man.
HEARTSTRINGS IN AUTUMN
Jack checked his watch for the third time in five minutes. “Ang, you almost ready? Our reservation’s at six.”
“Yes, I’m coming!”
He paced near the front door, trying to shake the familiar knot of anxiety that had taken up permanent residence in his chest. Tonight had to be perfect. They both needed this.
Angela appeared at the top of the stairs in the sequined lace elderberry dress she’d bought months ago—back when everything was different, when hope still felt possible. She descended slowly, one careful step at a time, her hand gripping the rail.
“Well?” She smiled when she reached him. “How do I look?”
Jack’s breath caught. The dress complemented her olive skin and dark hair perfectly, but it was more than that. Despite everything—the sleepless nights, the appointments, the grief that never quite left her eyes—she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
“Worth the wait,” he said, his voice thick.
He helped her into her coat and led her outside. Angela paused on the porch, tilting her face toward the sky where the sun painted the clouds deep red.
“What a beautiful crisp night.” Her breath formed a small cloud in the cold air.
Jack nodded, though he barely noticed the weather anymore. He took her hand and guided her carefully to their silver Range Rover, navigating the patches of fallen leaves from last night’s windstorm.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, searching her face. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”
“Yes, of course.” She squeezed his hand. “I’ve been looking forward to tonight for months.”
He helped her into the passenger seat, then slid behind the wheel. As he backed out of the driveway, he caught her checking her reflection in the visor mirror.
“You look beautiful,” he said softly.
She gave him a flirtatious glance while applying clear gloss to her lips. He managed a genuine laugh—the first one in weeks. She’d always been naturally beautiful, never needing much makeup. That hadn’t changed, even now.
Angela finished touching up her face and returned everything to her purse. Jack reached over and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She squeezed back, and for a moment, driving through the fading light with her beside him, he could almost pretend everything was normal.
Fifteen minutes later, he turned down a gravel road and passed through the iron gates of Blue Ridge Memorial Park.
Angela’s expression shifted as she stared out the window at the vast landscape of headstones, the trees covered with the colors of autumn. The setting sun cast long shadows across the cold ground. She felt the familiar ache settle in her chest—that strange mixture of sorrow and peace she only found here.
Jack slowed the vehicle and stopped.
“You ready?” he asked.
She nodded and stepped out. Jack came around and took her hand. They walked the familiar path, about twenty-five feet, until they reached a small upright headstone carved in the shape of a teddy bear holding a heart.
In Loving Memory of John Alexander Moore Jr.
Born Sleeping February 14, 2017
You were here for a moment but left a lifetime of love
A tear traced down Angela’s cheek. She knelt carefully and brushed leaves from the granite, her fingers lingering on her son’s name. Jack wiped his own tears as he watched his wife embrace the stone.
“I miss you so much, baby,” she whispered. “Mommy loves you. I’ll see you soon.”
The last words hit Jack like a punch to the gut.
After several minutes, Angela released the headstone and turned to him. He pulled her into his arms, holding her tight.
“I love you so much,” she said, her voice breaking.
“I love you too.” Jack’s grip tightened. “Which is why I don’t understand why you’re giving up.”
Angela stiffened in his arms. “Jack, please. Not tonight.”
“When, then? You won’t talk about it at home. You change the subject every time I bring it up.” His voice rose despite his efforts to stay calm. “Stopping treatment after only three months—Angela, you could beat this. We could beat this.”
“We’ve been through this.” She pulled away, wrapping her arms around herself. “I want my last days with you to be memorable. Happy thoughts and laughter, not hospitals and—”
“Last days?” Jack’s anger flared. “You’re forty-two years old! Dr. Adamson said the survival rate for your stage is seventy percent. Seventy percent, Angela!”
“With years of treatment. Years of being sick, of you watching me waste away, of—”
“Of having more time together? Yes! I’ll take it!” His voice echoed across the silent cemetery. “I’ll take every single day, every moment, even the hard ones. Don’t I get a say in this?”
“Of course you do, but—”
“No. You made this decision alone. You told me it was ‘the best way,’ but the best way for who?” He gestured toward their son’s grave. “I think you’re doing this, so you don’t have to spend years grieving for our son.”
Angela’s eyes widened. “How can you say that?”
“Because I know you!” Jack’s voice cracked. “I know you blame yourself even though the doctors said there was nothing you could have done. I know you lie awake at night wondering what kind of life he would have had.”
Silence stretched between them. The wind began to pick up, and leaves began to fall, soft beams of light from the sunset catching Angela’s dark hair.
“You’re right,” she finally said, her voice small. “Not about giving up—about doing this alone. I thought I was protecting you. Sparing you from watching me suffer the way I suffered watching John… not breathe, not cry, not live.” Tears streamed down her face. “But I wasn’t thinking about what this is doing to you. I’m so sorry, Jack.”
He pulled her close again, both shaking with sobs. “I grieve for him too. Every single day. I’m the man—I’m supposed to be strong—but I go into his nursery sometimes and just sit there. And now you want me to grieve for you too? While you’re still here, still fighting, still alive?”
“No,” Angela said firmly, pulling back to look him in the eyes. “No, you’re right. I’ve been so focused on avoiding pain that I forgot—” her voice caught, “—I forgot that loving someone means staying. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”
Jack cupped her face in his hands. “So, you’ll call Dr. Adamson? You’ll go back for treatments?”
She nodded, fresh tears falling. “Yes. I’ll go back.”
They held each other as the wind started to pick up. After a long moment, Angela managed a watery smile.
“How about we head to dinner before they give our table away? We can call the doctor tomorrow. Together.”
Jack returned her smile, relief flooding through him. “Together.”
They embraced one final time, then turned toward their son’s headstone. “We love you, buddy,” Jack whispered. “Your mom’s going to be okay. I promise.”
A gust of wind swirled, and the golden and amber leaves danced around them, settling quietly at their feet and on the headstone before them.
Angela tugged his hand, pulling him toward the car. “Come on, or we really will lose our reservation.”
Jack took one last look at the small granite teddy bear, his heart aching with the familiar grief that never fully went away. Then his gaze drifted involuntarily to the right.
The blank headstone stood. Smooth. Ready. Empty.
His breath caught in his throat. His feet wouldn’t move.
How long had it been there? Had she ordered it? Or had he, in some dark moment of preparation forced himself to forget?
“Jack?” Angela called from ahead, already at the car. “Come on, we’ll be late.”
He stared at that empty stone—its surface clean and expectant. Then at Angela, radiant in her elderberry dress despite everything. Alive. Still here. Still his.
“Jack?”
He tore his eyes away from the blank headstone and walked toward his wife, toward the possibility of more time, more moments, more everything.
“Coming,” he said, his voice barely audible over the wind.
As they drove away, he watched the cemetery disappear in the rearview mirror. The blank headstone remained, patient and waiting.
But not today.
Robin Pobiak is a certified Hope*Writers coach, personal and executive coach, and project manager based in Northern Virginia. When she’s not coaching or managing projects, she’s likely writing short fiction, crafting her debut novel, or enjoying coffee alongside a good book. Her writing will be featured in the upcoming collaborative devotional A Year of Hope by Hope*Books.
