Inside: letters. Dozens.
One for every birthday since our boy had been gone.
Some brief.
Some tear-stained.
Some filled with memories I’d never known.
All of them drenched in the love Sam had never stopped carrying.
And for the first time in twelve years, I understood:
Love does not grieve in one shape.
Some hearts break in the open.
Others break in secret.
Both are still love.
Sometimes, the ones we believe abandoned us are carrying pain so quietly, so heavily, we never see the cost.
As the last light melted into the lake, I whispered into the wind:
“I see it now.
I see you now.”
And in that moment, forgiveness finally found a place to rest.
