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I wore it to his funeral without thinking. Just grabbed something black. Wasn't paying attention. Could barely function. My cousin. 22 years old. Gone. I'd bought the hoodie months earlier. Wore it sometimes. Didn't think about it much. But that morning, standing in my wardrobe, trying to find something appropriate for a funeral I never should have been attending — I just grabbed it. Black hoodie. That's all I registered. I stood at the back of the church. Couldn't sit with the family. Couldn't face them. Couldn't look at his mum. The service started. People crying. His sister reading a poem she'd written. His best mate trying to speak but breaking down halfway through. I just stood there. Against the wall. Trying to hold it together. Then I felt someone tap my shoulder. I turned around. His mum. Standing right behind me. She'd walked all the way from the front row. Through the crowd. To find me at the back. I thought she was going to scream at me. Blame me. Ask why I didn't save him. But she wasn't looking at my face. She was looking at my chest. I looked down. And my stomach dropped. "You're Enough." I'd forgotten. Completely forgotten what I was wearing. Her eyes moved to my back. Then back to my face. "Where were you six months ago?" she said. Voice cracking. "Where was that message six months ago?" I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. "He needed to see that," she whispered. "He needed someone to tell him that." Then she hugged me. This broken woman who'd just lost her son. Holding onto me in the middle of his funeral. Crying into my shoulder. And all I could think was: I had this the whole time. I'd bought it months ago. Worn it around. Never thought about who might need to see it. Never thought about him. We lived in the same city. Saw each other at family events. I could have worn it to Sunday dinner. Could have worn it when we went to the pub that one time. He might have seen it. Might have read it. Might have said something. But I didn't. And now I was wearing it to his funeral. The worst possible timing. I went home that night and sat with the hoodie in my hands. Just staring at it. This thing that could have helped. This thing that might have made a difference. I'd had it the whole time. And he never saw it. The next morning, I put it on. And I haven't taken it off since. I wear it everywhere now. Every family event. Every dinner. Every time I leave the house. Because I can't be at another funeral wearing it for the first time. I can't look at another mother and have her ask where I was. I can't live through that again. His mum and I talk sometimes now. She doesn't blame me. Says she's glad I wore it that day. Says it gave her something to hold onto. She bought one too. Wears it when she goes shopping. Says she thinks about all the people behind her who might need to see it. "I couldn't save my son," she told me. "But maybe I can help save someone else's." We couldn't save him. But we wear the message every day now. Both of us. So nobody else's mum has to ask that question at a funeral. Front says "You're Enough." Back says "Dear person behind me, the world is a better place with you in it. Love, the person in front of you." I wore it to his funeral. And I'll never stop wearing it again.