Ruth took my hand.
“Mom, you don’t have to defend everything he did just because he’s gone.”
I looked at her in surprise.
“I suppose I have spent a long time doing that.”
“You have.”
She squeezed my fingers.
“You can remember the good things and still admit that he hurt you.”
I looked down at the letter.
For fourteen years, I had believed that loyalty meant protecting Samuel’s memory from anything unpleasant.
Now I understood that I could love him without pretending he had always been right.
And I could forgive him without denying what his silence had cost me.
Six weeks after surgery, I returned to the hospital for a follow-up appointment.
My incision was healing, my appetite had improved, and I could walk farther without becoming exhausted.
Dr. Patel examined me and asked about my recovery.
I told her about the lingering tiredness, the occasional discomfort, and the way I sometimes felt frightened when I noticed an unfamiliar sensation in my body.
