Sometimes Jack feels impossibly far away.

Then I hear someone repeat one of his jokes, and suddenly it feels as though he’s standing beside me again.

I still think about the morning Theo entered the chapel.

The whispers.

The uncomfortable looks.

Daniel starting to stand.

My own immediate judgment.

For several minutes, nearly every adult in that room believed we understood what we were seeing.

But we hadn’t asked a single question.

We saw a young man in a red dress and invented explanations before giving him the opportunity to share his own.

Jack had known that might happen.

In fact, he’d predicted it.

There was one final line in his handwritten note that Theo hadn’t read during the funeral.

He showed it to me much later.

Beneath the instructions about wearing red, Jack had written:

“If Mom looks angry, give her a little time. She’s actually pretty nice once she knows the whole story.”

I stared at those words for a long moment.

Then I looked at Theo.

“My son gave me far too much credit.”

Theo smiled.

“No, Mrs. Harris. He knew you.”

Perhaps he did.

And perhaps that’s the memory I hold closest now.

Not the dress.

Not the people whispering.

Not even the speech itself.

But the fact that, while facing the most frightening uncertainty of his young life, Jack still believed that people could become more understanding when they learned the truth.

That day, Theo helped all of us become a little kinder than our first reactions.

And every time I think about that bright red dress, I remember the extraordinary friendship behind it—and the son whose humor and love never disappeared, even during his hardest days.