myself. He reached toward my hand, then waited rather than assuming. After looking at him, I placed my hand in his. That wasn’t forgetting. It wasn’t denying what had happened or promising we could return to the past. I took his hand because I now understood the life I was choosing.
Sunlight filled the yard; the refrigerator hummed and the kitchen clock ticked. Nothing about that ordinary Saturday was dramatic. Yet I knew what I hadn’t on Thursday: mistakes could reveal lies, lies could shatter certainty, and painful truth could
