This Thanksgiving, it’s more than just a missing presence.

It’s more than memories that catch you off guard.

More than the ache that rises when your eyes land on the chair that should still be filled.

More than the quiet spot at the table where his energy, laughter, and light once lived.

It’s his missing presence…the presence of one who should still be running through the house… sneaking rolls off the counter… giggling at inside jokes… asking a million questions… and bringing that one-of-a-kind spark only he had.

Holidays aren’t supposed to be this quiet.

Not when a child like him should still be here.

It’s the sound you don’t hear …those footsteps, silly jokes, the kind of laughter that came from only him.

It’s the Grinch picture on the fridge you see and think, “He should be right there.”

It’s the traditions that don’t feel the same without his excitement wrapped around them.

And it’s the way your heart breaks and swells all at once when the family gathers… because his absence isn’t subtle.

It’s loud.

It’s felt.

It’s woven into every moment.

You see him in the cousins who grew another year…

in the empty space on the floor where he would have been playing…

in the way someone says his favorite dish and everyone goes quiet for a second…

in the way love keeps tugging at you because the few short years we had wasn’t nearly enough time.

This Thanksgiving hurts…. not because the holiday is hard, but because he was such a bright part of it and every day he was a bright part of….

And yet… somehow… in the middle of the ache, there’s gratitude too.

Gratitude that his life, though far too short, left an imprint big enough to be felt forever.

Gratitude that his joy, his laugh, his little-boy sweetness still echo in the hearts of everyone who loved him.

Gratitude that love doesn’t disappear just because a chair is empty.

So if this Thanksgiving feels heavier, softer, more tender than you expected… that’s why.

It’s more than just a missing presence.

More than memories flooding back.

More than an empty chair.

It’s the weight of a little boy’s absence…and the proof of how deeply he was loved…. And he will live on forever.