Then we planted a tree together.
Robert knelt down, gently pressed the soil around the young tree’s roots, and said:
“Dad, I’ve finally come home.”
I stood beside him.
At that moment, I understood that the strange incident in the forest hadn’t been about some terrible secret.
It had been about a son’s long-overdue return to his father.
Today, that little wooden car sits in the most visible place in our living room.
Sometimes, late at night, I see Robert walk over to it, pick it up, hold it gently in his hands, and smile.
He no longer blames himself for the past.
And every Sunday, we visit that same forest.
Not to search for something, but to care for the trees growing there.
That day, I was terrified when I saw my husband putting dirt into his mouth. I thought he’d lost his mind or was hiding something terrible from me.
