He’d spent years protecting his relationship at my expense.
Repairing it was his responsibility.
My father contacted me too.
He apologized for participating in the lie and admitted that he’d known I was alive after I left.
He simply hadn’t challenged my mother.
I wasn’t ready to forgive him.
But I appreciated that, for once, he hadn’t asked me to protect anyone.
Mom sent several messages.
Most explained why she’d done what she’d done.
None began with an apology.
I stopped reading them.
That spring, I was working among the apple trees when Suzanne sent me a photograph.
The memorial stone was gone.
The dogwood remained.
Its branches were covered in white blossoms.
She’d attached a short message.
I thought you’d like to see it blooming.
I looked at the photograph for a long time.
Then I opened my yellow notebook.
