One week after losing my eight-year-old son, Randy, I was still waiting for someone to explain what had happened to him.

He had suddenly collapsed at school, and despite everything the doctors had done, my little boy never came home.

But one thing troubled me almost as much as the unanswered questions.

His favorite red Spider-Man backpack had disappeared.

I asked the school about it several times, but nobody seemed to know where it had gone.

Then Mother’s Day arrived.

Normally, Randy would wake me up with a handmade card and flowers picked from our garden.

This year, his bedroom was silent.

I was sitting alone in the kitchen when someone knocked on the front door.

Standing on my porch was a little girl, no older than eight, clutching something against her chest.

It was Randy’s backpack.

“You were looking for this, weren’t you?” she whispered.

Before I could answer, she added something that made my heart pound.

“Randy told me to keep it safe. There’s something inside you need to see.”

I slowly opened the backpack, completely unprepared for what I was about to discover.

Continue below in Part 2