For three years, I had believed protecting Ethan meant helping him move forward without spending too much time in his father’s shadow.
Don’t dwell.
Don’t make him sad.
Keep life moving.
I had misunderstood him completely.
Ethan wasn’t trying to live in Ryan’s shadow.
He was desperately trying to remember his father’s face before the memory faded.
He wasn’t trapped in the past.
He was reaching for something that was slipping away.
And I hadn’t always helped him hold onto it.
Derek understood that longing before I did.
He saw exactly where my son was vulnerable.
And he nearly used it to destroy us.
But now, when Ethan asks about Ryan, I answer.
Anything he wants.
When I don’t know, I say so.
Sometimes we watch old videos together.
Ethan studies his father’s face as though he is memorizing it.
Because he is.
Sometimes we laugh.
Sometimes neither of us can speak.
Ryan is still gone.
Nothing changes that.
But his memory no longer belongs to whoever appears on a street corner with the most convincing story.
It belongs to us.
To the boxes on our living-room floor.
To the photographs.
