Months passed.
I stopped sleeping on Liam’s side of the bed.
I folded his sweatshirt and put it away.
The kids still asked questions I couldn’t fully answer.
One night Ava asked, “Did Daddy know we loved him?”
“Every day,” I said.
If your mom is reading this to you, it means she found her way through.
Later, I opened the letter Liam left for them.
He told Ava to keep asking questions.
He told Ben to be kind, but not so kind that people walked over him.
He told them both that taking care of their mother did not mean hiding their sadness.
At the bottom he wrote, If your mom is reading this to you, it means she found her way through. I knew she would.
On the first anniversary of the crash, another rainy Thursday, I drove to the curve outside town for the first time since Liam died.
I brought flowers.
I picked it up and smiled through tears.
I stood there in the drizzle, looking at the guardrail, the road, the place where everything changed.
Then I saw something half-buried in the mud.
A small metal washer.
Blue paint still clung to one edge.
