The last few weeks of Kingston’s life were suspended in a kind of muted, surreal time—days that blurred at the edges and refused to obey any normal rhythm. The air itself felt heavier. Our house was quieter in a way that didn’t bring peace. Just pressure. Pressure to remember every smile. Pressure to make joy from grief. Pressure to keep it together while everything in me was breaking.
That’s why I threw Kingston a backyard camping trip. He had never gone camping before—not real camping—but it didn’t matter. If he couldn’t go to the mountains, then I’d bring the mountains to him. I bought tents and string lights. Set up camping chairs and lanterns. We had hot dogs on skewers and graham crackers stacked with marshmallows. Even took a walk around the block we called a hike. I was trying to craft magic for him from what little time we had left.
We invited friends. More people showed up than I expected—around thirty. Kingston lit up in a way I hadn’t seen in weeks. There was laughter. There was warmth. And there were moments where time stopped. For just a second, we were all camping, not dying.
His dad was supposed to help that day. Just be part of it. I’d asked him to help pitch tents, hand out marshmallows, flip hot dogs. But he got pissed off about something—what, I honestly can’t remember anymore—and left. Said he was going to pick up food.
He never came back.
Not until midnight. He stumbled in, slurring, smelling like a bar floor. Kingston was already asleep. I remember thinking: even now, even when everything is slipping away, he can’t show up. Not even for this.
A week later, he was back at the house, digging around for that same old propane tank we’d used for the camping night. Said he wanted to use it to cook something. I offered him forty bucks to go buy a new one, just to keep things easy.
He didn’t take the offer well.
He got irritated. Started slamming drawers, muttering under his breath. And then, he threw the tools. Not directly at me—but in my direction. Enough to make his point. Enough for Kingston to notice, sitting right next to me on the couch, playing Pokémon like we always did.
And then came the words.
“You’re lazy. You do nothing. You’ve never done anything.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d said those things. But this time… this time, it cut through something deeper.
Because my son was dying. Right in front of us. And I had given everything—six years of treatments, hospitals, vomiting, seizures, tears, blood draws, therapies, sleepless nights, coded alarms, and whispered prayers—to make sure he had more time. And still, this man had the audacity to stand in my home and spit those words at me. With Kingston right there.
I told him to leave. But I didn’t just tell him—I gave him an ultimatum. I told him Kingston’s time was sacred. That there would be no more yelling, no more chaos, no more energy wasted on anyone else’s emotional instability. I said, if that’s what you’re bringing, leave. Do not come back.
I think I even threatened to call the police when he called me a cunt. One final word before he walked out.
When I closed the door behind him, I locked it. And then I cracked.
I didn’t cry because he threw tools.
I didn’t cry because he called me names.
I cried because—even walking our son to death’s door—he still believed I was nothing. That I hadn’t done anything. That after everything, I was just… invisible.
I sat back down next to Kingston, tried to play our game, tried to act like none of it stuck to me.
But the tears came anyway.
And then Kingston moved.
He hadn’t been speaking clearly in weeks. The mini-strokes had taken most of his words. He could still talk, but it came out scrambled, broken—words only Zuma and I could really understand. We were fluent in his language by then. Like mothers who understand toddlers that no one else can translate.
But this moment? This was different.
He reached out his arms and motioned for me to come closer.
Then he tapped his chest.
Just like I used to do when I wanted him or Zuma to come lay on me. That universal gesture of: I’ve got you. Come here. Let me hold you.
I hesitated. He was so small. Maybe twenty-five, thirty pounds. I didn’t want to hurt him. But he reached again. Stronger this time. Determined.
I leaned in. He grabbed me with what strength he had and pulled me onto him. Onto his chest. His arms wrapped around me like I was the one who needed protection. And maybe I did.
He patted my head. Rubbed my back.
And then—
He spoke.
“Come here.”
His voice was calm. Steady. Clear.
“You are not what he says.”
I froze.
“What? What did you say?” I asked, still frozen. Was I hallucinating?
He hadn’t said a full sentence like that in days. Maybe weeks.
“He says those things because he is weak,” he continued.
Still rubbing my back. Still holding me close. Still cradling me like I was a child and he was the parent.
“Just be with me.”
I was crying by then. But not from pain anymore. Not even from anger. It was something else. Something holy.
I asked, “Why do you sound so wise right now?”
He smiled—smirked, really—and said:
“Because I am. You’ll never be as smart as me. But you can try to catch up.”
The same sass he always had, even with half the strength left in his bones.
I wanted to record it. I grabbed my phone.
“Kingston, can you say that again? Say it all again for me.”
He looked at me, blank.
“Say what?”
Then he shook his head, like I was the one who was being ridiculous. Like none of what had just happened was unusual. Like I had imagined it. Then he turned back to the game controller, back to his screen, and resumed our match like nothing profound had happened.
“You need to be happy,” he said, matter-of-factly.
I wiped my face. “Okay,” I answered.
Then he said, “When you’re sad, you should just play our game.”
I nodded. I promised I would. But the truth? I’ve only played three times since he died.
He said it like it was simple. Like healing could be found in the click of a joystick and the comfort of muscle memory. Maybe he was right.
And after that day, he only spoke a handful of words to his dad. Barely acknowledged him again.
I’ve often wondered if that moment haunts his father. He says Kingston never sends him signs. I used to think maybe Kingston was mad at him. But now I know—it’s not that. It’s that his father can’t handle it. His mind, his emotional bandwidth, it isn’t capable of holding what a real sign would bring with it. Because a real sign would mean facing himself. And Kingston knows that. He always knew what people could carry.
Kingston visits me and Zuma because we can receive it. Because we’re open. Because we don’t run from it.
He has come through mediums I trust, and both of them—almost immediately—asked about his father. They told me Kingston needs me to forgive his dad. Because *he* has.
During his own life review, he saw everything. The trauma. The abuse. The neglect his father endured in his own childhood and throughout his life. And now Kingston sees clearly—why his dad could never show up the way he always wanted him to. Why he couldn’t be the dad Kingston needed, or the one Zuma still needs.
There is deep, serious damage tucked away in his human heart. And one day, when it’s my time, I’ll understand all of it better. But for now, it’s Kingston’s request—his clear, repeated request—that I forgive him.
Forgive him for accusing me of being worthless.
Forgive him for not showing up to treatments, for skipping therapies, for disappearing during emergencies.
Forgive him for the campout.
Forgive him for never being able to carry the weight.
Forgive him for what he’s still doing. For all the new ways he finds to twist things up, for the nonsense he throws my way now that I can’t even begin to understand. For making me carry all of this alone and then turning around and saying I’ve done nothing.
And so I do. Every time. I forgive him.
Because Kingston asked me to. Because Kingston *gets* it. And if he can let it go, then I can keep trying, too.
That moment on the couch wasn’t just about comfort. It wasn’t just about love.
It was a transmission.
It was Kingston channeling something bigger—something divine.
The way he tapped his chest. The way he held me. It didn’t feel like a son comforting a mom.
It felt like God himself, speaking through my little boy, was telling me that I mattered. That I was seen. That I was enough.
That no matter who threw tools or screamed names—**I knew who I was.**
Kingston reminded me.
And he never had to say it again. Because once was all I needed.
I will carry that moment for the rest of my life.
Because it wasn’t just the last time he spoke clearly. It was the last time he poured everything he had left into showing me that I wasn’t broken.
I was beloved.
