I learned that trusting someone who betrays you does not make you foolish.
It makes you human.
I learned that evidence can prove what happened, but it cannot restore the person you were before you knew.
And I learned there are some questions you survive by refusing to answer.
On the anniversary of my father’s death, Mom and I went to the cottage.
We carried his old toolbox onto the porch because she had finally decided to sort through it.
Inside were screwdrivers, electrical tape, a rusted level, pencils sharpened with a pocketknife.
At the bottom was a pair of safety glasses.
Mom held them up.
“Your father kept everything.”
I smiled.
“He was right about depreciation.”
She laughed.
The sun was setting.
I picked up the broken glasses we had kept from that night and turned them in my hand one last time.
Then I walked to the trash.
