Two weeks ago, they finally fell apart. The soles peeled off completely.
I told him I would buy new ones, though I didn’t know how. I had just lost my job as a waitress because, according to my employer, I looked “too sad” around customers. I didn’t argue, but money was tight. Still, I would have figured something out.
But Andrew shook his head.
“I can’t wear other shoes, Mom. These are from Dad.”
Then he handed me duct tape, like it was the most obvious solution.
“It’s okay. We can fix them.”
So I did. I wrapped them carefully and even drew patterns on the tape to make them look better. That morning, I watched him leave the house in those patched shoes, hoping no one would notice.
I was wrong.
That afternoon, he came home quieter than usual, walked past me, and went straight to his room. Moments later, I heard it—that deep, broken crying no parent ever forgets.
When I rushed in, I found him curled up, holding those sneakers like they were the only thing keeping him together.
