On a cold February day in Minnesota in 2016, my 22-month-old son, Ted, was taking a nap while the rest of our family went about our normal day. Little did we know he was actually fighting for his life, trying to breathe, unable to scream for help. His dresser had tipped over onto him, and his little body had absorbed the noise. Nobody heard it fall. He was in his own safety zone: his bedroom. It was the place where we had outlet covers in every outlet and the cord from his window blind out of reach. There was nothing in his room that could harm him. His bedroom was the one place in the house where he was 100% safe… or so we thought. I didn’t know that his dresser was unsafe if it was not anchored to the wall; it contained no warning label stickers on it. We had bought it for my older son two years before Ted was even born. I will never forget holding his cold, chubby hand in the ER, praying that he would survive. But he didn’t. He died just six weeks before his second birthday. In a matter of just four short hours, our lives had changed forever. “This isn’t happening to me,” I thought as I dressed my son for the last time at the funeral home. I put on his little socks and Thomas the Train shoes. They lit up when he walked. They would never light up again. I placed his little body in his blue youth casket two days before his funeral.