1、I was deep in thought at my office, preparing a lecture to be given that evening at a college across town, when the phone rang. A woman I had   36  met introduced herself and said that she was the mother of a seven year old boy and that she was   37  . She said that her doctor had advised her that discussing her coming death with her son would be too   38   for him, but somehow that didn’t feel right to her.

39   that I worked with sad children, she asked for my advice. I told her that our heart was often smarter than our brain and that I thought she knew what would be best for her son. I also   40  her to attend the lecture that night since I was speaking about how children deal successfully with   41  . She said she would be there.

I wondered later if I would   42   her at the lecture, but my question was answered when I saw a   43   woman being half carried into the room by two adults. I talked about the fact that children usually   44   the truth long before they are told and that they often wait until they feel adults are   45   to talk about it before sharing their concerns and questions. I said that it is better to tell children the truth about bad things   46   pretend they don’t happen. I said that respecting children meant   47   them in the family sadness, not shutting them out.

She had heard enough. At the break, she hobbled (跛行) to me and   48   tears she said, “I knew it in my heart. I just knew I should tell him.” She said that she   49   tell him that night.

The next morning I received another phone call from her. She could hardly talk, but I managed to   50   the story through her choked voice. She had awakened him when they got home the night before and   51   said, “Derek, I have something to tell you.” He quickly interrupted her, saying, “Oh, Mommy, is it now that you are going to   52   me that you are dying?”

She   53   him close, and they both sobbed while she said, “Yes.”

After a few minutes, the little boy wanted down. He said that he had   54   for her that he had been saving. In the back of one of his drawers was a dirty pencil box. Inside the box was a letter   55   in simple untidy handwriting. It said, “Good bye, Mom. I will always love you.”

How long he had been waiting to hear the truth, I don’t know. I do know that two days later the young mother died. In her coffin was placed a dirty pencil box and a letter.