Chapter 27
Amanda died six months later.
Lily was with her.
I was not.
Dad was not.
Sarah was not.
That was how it needed to be.
Amanda’s funeral was small.
Lily asked whether I wanted to attend.
I said yes.
Dad said no.
Nobody judged him.
That mattered.
Ellen surprised us by attending.
Robert didn’t.
His grief for Ryan had boundaries.
So did hers.
At the funeral, people told stories about Amanda from later years.
Her work helping women leaving prison.
A literacy class she volunteered with.
A coworker who said Amanda never missed a shift.
I listened.
None of those stories erased mine.
Mine did not erase theirs either.
Human beings were inconvenient that way.
After the service, Lily stood beside the grave.
“I thought I’d feel different.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Finished.”
I understood.
“Maybe people aren’t books.”
She looked at me.
“Wow.”
“What?”
“That was almost deep.”
“Almost?”
“You’re still you.”
We laughed quietly.
Then she cried.
I held her.
Amanda’s will contained very little.
She left personal items to Lily.
A small savings account to pay remaining restitution.
And one sealed package to me.
I nearly refused it.
Then I opened it.
Inside was no letter.
Just a photograph.
Dad.
Mom.
Me as a baby.
Claire was holding me.
Dad stood behind her.
Both were laughing.
I had never seen the picture.
On the back, Amanda had written only:
This belonged to your mother. I should have given it to you years ago.
My hands shook.
I called Dad.
He came over immediately.
He saw the photograph.
Then sat down.
“Where did she get this?”
“It was in her things.”
Dad touched Mom’s face.
“I took this.”
“You did?”
“Your grandmother’s backyard.”
His eyes filled.
“You were six weeks old.”
I stared at Mom.
She looked alive in a way old posed photographs never captured.
Her head tilted back.
Mouth open in laughter.
I was asleep against her.
“What was happening?”
Dad laughed through tears.
“You threw up on her.”
I stared.
“That’s why she’s laughing?”
“She told me to take a picture because parenthood was glamorous.”
I laughed.
For years, Amanda had kept that photograph.
Maybe out of jealousy.
Maybe control.
Maybe shame.
Eventually she returned it.
Too late.
But returned.
I framed it.
It hangs in my house now.
Not because Amanda gave it back.
Because it was always mine.
After Amanda’s death, Lily’s relationship with the past changed.
No more monthly calls.
No possibility of future questions.
Grief became quieter and heavier.
She started therapy again.
So did I briefly.
Not because I mourned Amanda like Lily did.
Because death closes doors even when you were not planning to walk through them.
I would never meet Amanda at another grocery store.
Never receive another letter.
Never change my mind and ask another question.
Finality has weight.
Dr. Harris had fully retired by then.
I saw another therapist.
At first I resented her for not being him.
She noticed.
“You compare me to someone.”
I laughed.
“You’re good.”
“That obvious?”
“Yes.”
We worked well together.
One session she asked, “What are you afraid will happen now that Amanda is dead?”
I thought.
“Nothing.”
She waited.
“That’s the problem.”
I surprised myself.
“For most of my life there was always something.”
Court.
Letters.
Release hearings.
Boundaries.
Illness.
“Now?”
“Now it’s just over.”
She nodded.
“Peace can feel unfamiliar after prolonged threat.”
That sentence annoyed me because it was correct.
So I practiced peace.
Normal routines.
Work.
Dinner with Dad every Sunday.
Babysitting Oliver.
Dating.
Yes.
Dating.
I had avoided serious relationships for years.
I told myself I was busy.
The truth was simpler.
Trust scared me.
Then I met Maya.
She was a pediatric nurse.
We met during a joint training at the hospital.
She disagreed with me during a panel.
Strongly.
I liked her immediately.
Our first date lasted four hours.
Our second included an argument about movies.
Our fifth ended with me telling her about Amanda.
Not everything.
Enough.
She listened.
Then she asked, “What do you need from me with that?”
I had no answer.
Nobody had ever asked so directly.
“Consistency.”
She nodded.
“I can do consistency.”
She did.
Maya met Dad six months later.
Dad tried to be normal.
He failed.
Sarah kicked him under the table twice.
Lily interrogated Maya openly.
Maya survived.
Oliver asked whether she liked dinosaurs.
She said yes.
He approved her immediately.
I trusted Maya slowly.
She never rushed me.
The first time she cooked dinner, she accidentally gave herself the largest piece of chicken.
Then she looked at my plate.
Her face changed.
“Do you want this one?”
I laughed.
She froze.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Ethan.”
I told her.
Not because I was triggered.
Because suddenly it was funny.
She listened.
Then swapped our chicken anyway.
I swapped it back.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
We ate.
Two years later, I proposed.
No dramatic crowd.
No hidden cameras.
No expensive restaurant.
We were in my kitchen.
She was cutting strawberries.
I had planned a beautiful speech.
I forgot all of it.
I just said, “I feel safe with you.”
Maya stopped moving.
I took out the ring.
“That’s the biggest thing I know how to say.”
She started crying.
“Yes.”
I laughed.
“I haven’t asked.”
“Yes anyway.”
So I asked.
She said yes again.
When I told Dad, he hugged me for a long time.
May you like
Then whispered, “Your mom would love her.”
I believed him.
