Everything we didn’t know yet.
“I remember thinking I was alone.”
Logan lowered his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
I leaned against him.
“But that isn’t where the memory ends anymore.”
He looked at me.
“Where does it end?”
I smiled toward the warm light glowing through our living-room window.
“With this.”
Inside was the wooden family box.
Beside it sat Ethan’s birthday cards.
A photograph of Margaret and Elizabeth rested on the mantel.
Another photograph showed Robert holding newborn Ethan at the hospital.
And beside it was a picture taken that afternoon.
Robert.
Logan.
Ethan.
Me.
Marisol squeezed into the edge because she refused to let the camera leave her out.
Nobody in the picture had a perfect history.
Nobody had made every right choice.
But everyone had stayed long enough to learn how to make better ones.
Logan squeezed my hand.
“You know what my mother wrote?”
