Feathers from Heaven

Coming home after a short family break, I was greeted by something small yet deeply meaningful — a tiny white feather resting on our doorstep.

To some, it might seem like nothing. Just a feather, caught by the breeze. But to me, it felt like a quiet whisper from heaven. A gentle reminder that my baby boy is still near, still watching over us in his own silent, sacred way.

I know it might sound sentimental — maybe even a bit romantic — to think that a feather could be a sign from my son. But in that moment, I felt a warmth in my heart. A spark of comfort. It made me smile inside, as if he was saying, “I’m here, Dad. I haven’t gone far.”

These moments come now and then — especially when I’m out walking. Sometimes I’ll spot a tiny, delicate feather on the path. I always pause. I bend down, gently pick it up, and say a quiet prayer in my mind. Nothing grand — just a few words wrapped in love.

Then, I lift the feather to the sky and blow it into the wind, sending with it all the love I still carry for him, all the memories we never got to make, all the pieces of my heart that still ache and still hope.

It’s a ritual now. A connection. A

father’s way of holding onto something invisible yet unshakably real.

Because even though he's not here in my arms, he lives in my heart. Every day. In every step I take. And in every feather that finds its way to me — I see a message, a moment, a miracle.