“Sometimes talking about your dad hurt me. So I avoided it. I told myself I was protecting you, but sometimes I was protecting myself.”
Ethan looked at me.
“I like hearing about him.”
“I know.”
“Even if it’s sad.”
I nodded.
“I’d rather be sad and hear about Dad than not hear about him.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Because I finally understood what my silence had created.
Every time I avoided talking about Ryan, I left another empty space inside Ethan.
And empty spaces get filled.
This time, Derek had tried to fill them.
That weekend, I took Ethan to the storage unit.
My decision.
Nobody else’s.
We pulled Ryan’s boxes down one by one.
The first contained his baseball glove.
His watch.
Old Father’s Day cards Ethan had made in preschool.
At the bottom was Ethan’s tiny hospital bracelet from the day he was born.
