One Sunday she asked, “Do you think he’ll ever come around?”
She didn’t say Daniel’s name. She didn’t need to.
I looked out at the garden, at the rosemary and the basil and the little tomato plants trying their best despite the inconsistent spring.
“Maybe,” I said. “But I won’t wait for it.”
She nodded slowly.
“You’re not angry anymore.”
“No,” I said. “Anger takes too much energy. I’d rather spend mine living.”
Before she left that day, she hugged me so tightly I could feel her heartbeat through my blouse.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“I know,” I said, smiling into her shoulder. “That’s why you’ll be fine.”
After she drove away, I took out my notebook.
There was one blank page left at the back.
I wrote, in my neat old teacher’s hand:
Let the silence you choose be the peace they never gave you.
