She wanted to hear him growling like a bear.
Wanted to pick up his toys.
Wanted to complain about spilled hot chocolate.
Wanted to watch him grow taller.
Instead, she woke each morning in a world where he was not there.
One afternoon in February, she opened the box containing the few belongings brought home from the hospital.
Inside were his blanket.
A small ornament.
Several cards.
And the teddy bear Big Jim had brought.
She lifted the bear.
Its red scarf was slightly crooked.
She adjusted it.
Then held it against her chest.
For the first time in weeks, she remembered the moment Jim placed it beside the bed.
The enormous man asking permission.
His voice so quiet.
The soft humming.
The photograph of his daughter.
And the words he spoke when she thanked him for staying.
We weren't going anywhere.
She began crying.
For a long time, she sat on the floor holding the teddy bear.
Then she reached for her telephone.
She called St. Mary's.
Asked for the volunteer coordinator.
And left a message for Big Jim.
She did not ask for money.
Or presents.
Or another visit.
She wanted to tell him something.
Something she had not been able to say on Christmas Eve.
A few days later, with the coordinator's help and her explicit permission, Jim called her.
His voice sounded nervous.
"Hello, ma'am."
She recognized it immediately.
"Jim?"
"Yes."
There was a pause.
Then he said, "I hope it isn't a bad time."
She looked toward the teddy bear sitting beside her.
"No."
He waited.
She took a breath.
"I wanted to thank you."
Jim swallowed.
"You already did."
"I know."
Her voice trembled.
"But there's something else."
He remained quiet.
She continued.
"Christopher's last Christmas could have been nothing but fear."
Her eyes filled.
"And there was fear. So much of it."
Jim closed his eyes.
She continued.
"But there was music too."
He pressed one hand against his forehead.
"There was a teddy bear."
She began crying.
"And there was a man who sat beside us and didn't make me feel like I had to pretend everything was okay."
Jim's voice broke.
"Ma'am..."
She wiped her face.
"I don't remember every word people said that night."
She looked toward the little bear.
"But I remember you stayed."
Jim sat motionless.
Then whispered, "I'm glad I was there."
The mother took a breath.
"I don't know how to live without him yet."
Jim looked toward his daughter's photograph on the mantel.
"Neither did I."
She waited.
He continued.
"Some days, I still don't know exactly."
The woman began crying again.
Jim did not rush to fill the silence.