Three months after the funeral, I was barely holding it together. My son was barefoot in the truck, I couldn’t find the sunscreen, and I was about to cry in a parking lot—again.
Then a woman appeared. Calm, kind, and offering help. Her name was Theresa. We talked briefly. I told her how lost I felt without my wife. I thought that was it.
Two days later, she showed up at my door—with groceries, diapers, and five strangers. A kid held a sign: “DADS NEED VILLAGES TOO.”
They didn’t ask permission. They just stepped in—with food, help, and love. Week by week, they kept showing up. I started breathing again.
Theresa told me, “You’ll repay us by doing the same for someone else.”
Months later, I saw a young dad in the store, overwhelmed. I helped. He came to one of our gatherings. No pity—just support.
That’s how villages grow: one act of kindness at a time.
Eventually, Theresa handed me a flyer: “Starting Over: A Group for Single Dads.”
“You’re running it,” she said.
Now I’m the one showing up for others—because someone once showed up for me.
Grief broke me. The village healed me.
And it all started with: “Mind if I help?”
