Chapter 19
Linda died when Noah was twelve.
The prison chaplain called Michael first.
Then Michael called me.
His voice was quiet.
“She’s gone.”
I sat down.
I expected relief.
Instead, I felt stillness.
Like a storm I had stopped tracking had finally dissolved at sea.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
That was honest.
We told the children together.
Emily was sixteen.
Noah was twelve.
Emily nodded once.
Noah asked, “Do I have to be sad?”
Michael’s face crumpled.
I answered.
“No. You get to feel whatever you feel.”
Noah thought about it.
“I feel sorry she was bad.”
Michael covered his mouth.
Emily took his hand.
That surprised me.
It surprised him more.
“I’m sorry she was your mom,” Emily said.
Michael cried then.
Not as my husband.
Not as the man who failed us.
As a son grieving the mother he wished he’d had.
Emily let him cry.
Noah leaned into my side.
I realized then that we were safe enough to allow complicated feelings.
May you like
Linda could not use them anymore.
That was freedom.
