I looked at the envelope and thought, How generous of you to decide when I could live my life.
"He made them promise to accept that I was their mother."
We drove home with the envelope, Ryan's letter, which I still couldn't read, and a framed photo of Jack and Caleb taken on their eighteenth birthday. I put the photo on the passenger seat because I couldn't fit it in my purse.
Lily watched her stop at the red light. Halfway there, she asked me the question I knew was coming.
"Mom, will I ever meet my brothers?"
I grabbed the wheel and looked straight ahead. "I think there's hope out there, honey."
It was the most honest answer I could give.
I don't know if I'll ever forgive Ryan. Maybe one day I'll understand the fear that led him to think it was an act of mercy. But understanding isn't the same as forgiveness, and the wound is still open, even after seven years, because the truth has made those years painful again. Understanding isn't the same as forgiving.
I know this: my husband didn't leave me alone with my grief. He left me with a fake grief, with a front door I guarded for years, with a lake I begged for answers about, and with the children I loved who were living their lives elsewhere, when I thought the world had taken them away.
But one thing changed after seeing that movie: I stopped waiting for Ryan to come home.
I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive him. But I can't keep living as if he were about to come back.
And for the first time in seven years, I'm finally grieving the truth, not the secret. Maybe it's the only way to truly heal.
I stopped waiting for Ryan to come home.
