Losing Ted was the worst nightmare the Wesenbergs could have ever imagined. It happened one Sunday afternoon in their own backyard—an unexpected tragedy in the place that was supposed to be the safest.
Ted had drowned in the family’s swimming pool. His father, Paul, had jumped in to save him, but it was too late. No matter how hard he tried to revive him, and even with the paramedics’ best efforts, Ted was gone. His small body floated on the surface, lifeless.
At the funeral, Linda Wesenberg sat motionless, her face pale and void of expression. The days that followed were filled with sorrow and anger. The once-loving Wesenberg home became a place of grief and blame.
Paul and Linda were consumed by pain, and their arguments grew louder each day. Every night, their surviving son, Clark, lay awake, listening to the sound of his mother crying and his father shouting. He clutched his teddy bear, longing for the warmth that once filled their home.
He missed Ted terribly. His mother no longer kissed him goodnight, and his father no longer played with him. Linda barely left her room, and Paul, though trying his best, couldn’t replace what was lost. Clark felt invisible, abandoned in a home that had forgotten love.
One evening, the arguments became unbearable.
“STOP!” Clark screamed, running into their bedroom. “Why do you keep fighting?”
His mother turned to Paul, her face bitter. “See? I lost Ted because of you, and now Clark resents you!”
Paul clenched his fists. “Oh really, Linda? Do you think he feels closer to you?”
Clark had enough. His heart ached with frustration.
“I hate you both,” he muttered. Then, louder, “I HATE YOU! Ted was the only one who loved me—I’m going to him!”
Before his parents could stop him, he ran out the door, taking the dahlias he and Ted had planted. His feet carried him straight to the cemetery.
At Ted’s grave, Clark wept. “I miss you, Ted. Can you ask the angels to bring you back?”
He told his brother everything—how their parents had changed, how they didn’t love him anymore, how lonely he felt. The sadness overwhelmed him, and he didn’t notice how late it had become.
Suddenly, he heard rustling behind him. He turned sharply.
A group of hooded figures emerged from the shadows, their faces hidden, carrying torches.
“Look what we have here,” one of them sneered. “A lost little boy in our territory.”
Clark’s heart pounded. “Who… who are you?” he stammered.
Before they could get closer, a deep voice boomed.
“ENOUGH! Chad, how many times have I told you to stay out of here?”
An older man stepped forward—tall, strong, and serious.
The leader of the hooded figures sighed. “Come on, Mr. Bowen! This is where our cult meets.”
Mr. Bowen scoffed. “Go home before I tell your parents.”
Clark, relieved, ran to Mr. Bowen, who took him to his cottage nearby and offered him hot chocolate.
“Why were you alone at the cemetery, son?” Mr. Bowen asked gently.
Clark, sensing kindness in the old man, shared everything—about Ted, his parents, and how he no longer felt loved.
Meanwhile, Linda realized Clark was missing. Panic surged through her. She searched everywhere before one thought struck her—Ted’s grave.
She raced to the cemetery, finding Paul already there.
“Clark isn’t home!” she gasped.
Paul’s face darkened. “Let’s find him.”
As they reached the cemetery, they saw shadows moving in the distance. A group of teens in robes stood by a fire.
Paul grabbed one of them. “WHERE IS MY SON?”
The teen stammered, “Mr. Bowen took him. He’s safe.”
Linda and Paul rushed to Mr. Bowen’s cottage. Through the window, they saw their son talking to the old man. They listened as Clark poured out his feelings, and for the first time, they saw his pain.
Tears streamed down Linda’s face as she burst into the room, wrapping Clark in a tight embrace.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. We love you.”
Paul squeezed his son’s shoulder. “Forgive us, buddy.”
Clark nodded through his tears.
From that night on, the Wesenbergs healed together. Their home, once broken by grief, slowly filled with love again.
