From the time he was eight, George used to tell me he was certain everyone else knew a secret he didn’t.

He couldn’t explain what it was—only that something in his life felt missing, and that emptiness ached.

Our mother had been gone two years, and we’d been passed from one relative to another, so I assumed he missed her. But there was always something deeper in George’s restlessness—a quiet awareness that he didn’t quite belong.

That sense of being out of step with the world became, for him, a lifelong search for meaning.

He would sometimes ask if he was an “accident,” if he hadn’t really been meant to be part of our family.

We were living in a difficult home at the time, filled with criticism and uncertainty, and most days neither of us knew what to expect. Still, I always reminded George that he was special and loved.

In high school, he found a brief sense of belonging. He was a talented football player, admired by many.

However, after a severe knee injury ended his playing days, everything changed.

He dropped out of school and came to live with my fiancé, Tyler, and me. I bought him a reliable used car, and every morning he set out determined to find work, though jobs were scarce. It was a hard and frightening time.

Many nights, George couldn’t sleep.

He’d toss and turn, drenched in worry, asking, “What am I doing with my life? What went wrong? How will I make money? What if I can’t find a job?”

The questions never stopped—and for months, nothing changed.

Then one morning, I found a ten-pound box of chocolates on the kitchen counter, beside a note from George and an old Christmas card from Mrs. Mullin. The card was from years earlier, when George was five and I was eight, and our mother worked long days in San Bernardino. Mrs. Mullin had cared for us then.

On the back, she had written, “Don’t forget to love.”

That morning, George was gone. He’d asked me not to look for him, and as much as it hurt, I knew better than to try. The house felt hollow, and every road outside called my name, urging me to search for him.

But something inside me knew—the road wouldn’t lead me to George; it would only remind me of how far he’d already gone.

This was not the first, nor the last, time our paths would cross and drift apart.

And in that stillness, I learned something both painful and profound:
Sometimes the only way to love someone is to trust the distance between you.

Don’t forget to love.