We went to the hospital.
The same hospital where Ethan had died thirteen years earlier.
She stood outside for a long time.
Then she looked at me.
“I used to think my birthday was the day I survived.”
She paused.
“I think now it’s the day he gave me his future.”
I put my arm around her.
“You don’t have to carry him.”
She smiled through her tears.
“I know.”
Then she touched the necklace around her neck.
“I just want to carry his love.”
And that was the first time in thirteen years that saying Ethan’s name didn’t feel like opening a wound.
It felt like opening a door.
A door into everything he had wanted for her.
A life.
A family.
A future.
A reason to laugh without guilt.
And as we walked back toward the car, Clara suddenly stopped.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
She smiled.
