Why Forty-Seven Umbrellas?

Because Ethan had made a promise.

Before he died, he told the people whose names he wrote down:

“Someday, when my son is old enough to understand what kindness costs, I want you to pay it forward.”

They had laughed.

They had assumed he was speaking metaphorically.

But he had been serious.

The plan was simple.

They would each keep an umbrella.

A different umbrella.

Not Ethan's.

Not the blue one.

And if his son ever gave away that blue umbrella to someone who truly needed it, they would place their umbrellas outside our house.

Each person would bring a note.

Each note would tell Eli what his father had done for them.

The plan had remained dormant for two years.

Nobody knew when it would happen.

They only knew they were waiting.

And then, last Tuesday, it happened.

A pregnant woman was standing in the rain.

A twelve-year-old boy gave away the one thing he treasured most.

And forty-seven people kept their promise.

But There Was One Problem

Not everyone was happy.

The next afternoon, one of the forty-seven people came to our house.

Her name was Rebecca.

She was crying.

“I need to tell you something.”

“What?”

She looked at Eli.

“Your father shouldn't have done this.”

I froze.

“What do you mean?”

She took a deep breath.

“He helped too many people.”

I didn't understand.

She continued.

“He made everyone think they were responsible for carrying on his kindness.”

“That sounds like something he would do.”

“No,” she said.

“You don't understand.”

She looked at Eli.

“Your father wasn't only helping people.”

“He was using all of us to hide how afraid he was.”

That sentence hit me like a slap.

I looked at her.

“What are you saying?”

Rebecca explained that Ethan had been terrified of dying.

He had been scared of what would happen to us.

He knew he couldn't control his illness.

So he tried to create something that would continue after he was gone.

A network.

A chain.

A way of believing that some part of him would keep existing.

“He wasn't just helping us,” she said.

“He needed us to remember him.”

I felt angry.

For the first time that day, I felt angry at my husband.

Not for dying.

For leaving me with this.

“You should have told me,” I whispered.

Rebecca cried.

“He made us promise not to.”