My eldest son, Andy, learned the art of paper cutting at kindergarten today. He came home proudly clutching four paper figures. These weren’t just simple white silhouettes; they each had distinct personalities, unique builds, and names that Andy had carefully bestowed upon them. He spent the entire afternoon lost in a world of his own, playing with his new friends.

Later that evening, we headed out for a barbecue, and Andy insisted on bringing his paper companions along. However, as we reached the car after dinner, panic washed over his face — he realized he had left his “four little friends” back at the table. I told him to stay put while I hurried back inside to retrieve them.

When I found the staff, they told me that the “scraps of paper” had been mistaken for trash, crumpled up, and tossed away during the cleanup. I returned to the car and broke the news to Andy. I delivered the facts calmly, expecting him to receive them with the same composure.

I was wrong.

The moment the words left my mouth, his emotions surged like a tidal wave. He erupted in a fit of rage and grief, his feet drumming frantically against the car floor in pure, unadulterated heartbreak. With tears streaming down his face, he wailed over and over, “What do I do? What can I possibly do?”

At first, I felt a slight urge to chuckle at the drama, but as the sobbing persisted, my patience began to fray. I kept trying to use logic, urging him to accept the reality of the situation. But then, I forced myself to stop and actually see the world through his eyes. To him, these weren’t just scraps of paper; they were his companions.

Unexpectedly, I felt tears welling up in my own eyes. Perhaps I had been an “adult” for so long that my own sense of childhood wonder had withered away.

Eventually, I managed to soothe him. Andy had watched Coco just a few days prior, so he understood that death isn’t the final end — the only true death is being forgotten. To honor them, we held a small memorial service. On a blank sheet of paper, Andy drew all four of them again, placing himself in the center of the group. He asked me to fill the empty spaces with the lyrics to “Remember Me,” and together, we sang the song twice.

Later, I turned those four new paper figures into necklaces for him. I also made a pendant of Andy’s self-portrait, which I now keep on my phone strap. It hangs there as a constant reminder of that night — a reminder to protect my own sense of wonder and to always truly see the world within my children’s hearts.