For years, I had planned my birthdays around Thomas’s memory. I had turned down opportunities because I felt that moving forward meant abandoning the young woman who had loved him.
Now, at seventy-six, I realized that I had been loyal to my own sorrow long enough.
“I want to see the ocean,” I said.
My sister smiled.
“The ocean?”
“Yes. Somewhere I’ve never been. Somewhere I can sit by the water and watch the waves without thinking about who might or might not come home.”
She laughed softly.
“Then we’ll go.”
And we did.
A few weeks later, I stood on a quiet beach with my shoes in my hands, letting the cool water wash over my feet. The wind pulled at my silver hair, and the horizon stretched endlessly before me.
I thought about Thomas once more.
I wished him peace. I hoped he would find some comfort in knowing that I had not spent my life hating him.
