It was the first time I had done so since his return.
He went completely still.
“You can breathe,” I said.
“I’m trying not to ruin the moment.”
“There you go trying to be perfect again.”
He laughed.
Then his fingers closed gently around mine.
“I forgive you,” I said.
His smile disappeared.
“Joanna—”
“I’m not saying what happened was acceptable.”
“I know.”
“And forgiveness doesn’t mean I’ll never be scared you’ll leave again.”
“I know.”
“It means I don’t want that night making every decision for the rest of my life.”
His eyes filled.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
He laughed through the emotion.
“There she is.”
We remained on that bench until the air became cold.
Nothing dramatic happened.
No music.
No applause.
No miraculous transformation.
We simply walked home holding hands.
That was enough.
Two years after Ethan’s birth, Robert invited everyone to dinner.
