Because I finally understood what my silence had created.
Every time I avoided talking about Ryan, I left another empty space inside Ethan.
And empty spaces get filled.
This time, Derek had tried to fill them.
That weekend, I took Ethan to the storage unit.
My decision.
Nobody else’s. We pulled Ryan’s boxes down one at a time.
The first held his baseball glove.
His watch.
Old Father’s Day cards Ethan had made in preschool.
At the bottom was Ethan’s tiny hospital bracelet from the day he was born.
Beside it was Ryan’s bracelet marked FATHER.
Ethan stared.
“You really kept all this?”
I smiled through my tears.
“I kept way too much.”
We spent hours sitting on the concrete floor.
Pictures.
Fishing gear.
Concert tickets.
Old birthday cards.
A terrible yellow tie Ryan had once worn to Christmas.
And stories.
So many stories.
I told Ethan how terrified Ryan had been of holding a newborn that, before Ethan was born, he practiced carrying a five-pound bag of flour.
One day, the bag split and spilled flour everywhere.
Ryan blamed the imaginary baby.
I told him about the time Ryan chased a raccoon away from our porch wearing nothing but socks, locked himself outside, and had to throw pebbles at our window to wake me.
