she wanted me to find her.
I held her again.
“I never stopped wanting you,” I said. “Not for one second.”
“I know, Mom.”
Months later, Cynthia and I were living together in a small apartment.
Nothing became magically normal again.
How could it?
We had therapy sessions every Thursday.
We built new routines slowly.
Pancakes on Sunday mornings became one of our favorites.
Sometimes Cynthia asked questions I couldn’t answer.
Sometimes I woke up furious over the year stolen from us.
Gary, meanwhile, was answering to the court.
One
