Page 115 of Came the Closest

After Graham straightens, Colton takes his place. He’s empty-handed, but he has the words the rest of us can’t seem to get out.

“I spent a long time being mad,” he says, fighting tears. My gold wedding band on his finger catches a stray beam of sunlight as he trails his fingertips across his mother’s name. “Mad at you, mad at Dad.” He chokes on a laugh that becomes a sob. “It’s probably why I decided to ride bulls who were mad at me for a change.”

A strangled laugh catches in Jordan’s throat. He puts his fist to his mouth while Graham presses his fingertips to his puffy eyes. In my arms, Indi begins to still, her cheek still pressed into my chest. I kiss the top of her head and hold her tighter.

“I wish I’d realized sooner that anger wasn’t the answer. I can’t change it, but I can choose differently from now on,” Colton continues, words trembling. “Instead of being mad at you, I want to thank you. You might never have been truly happy with us, but you gave all of us the chance to choose happiness for ourselves.” Hand resting over the word mother, he lowers his chin to his chest and closes his eyes. “I love you, Mom.”

He stays there for a long moment. When he stands up, Graham wordlessly passes him a Kleenex. It’s from the travel-size pouch Ember sent with him before we left this morning, and the bright floral plastic wrapper is a stark contrast to our surroundings.

It’s my turn now. This is where I should remember everything I thought I would want to say, all the things I should say, but none of it feels like it matters right now. Indi steps from my arms to Colton’s sheltering embrace, and I kneel before Kathleen’s grave.

“I need to thank you, too,” I say quietly. Moisture seeps through the knees of my slacks, but I ignore it. “I also need to set you free, Kathleen. For my sake and for yours. I’ll hold everything together down here. I just need for you to be truly at peace.”

The five of us stand shoulder to shoulder, lost in our own thoughts. Overhead, warmth seeps through briny clouds, suffusing me with warmth. Physically, but also emotionally. With the warmth comes the peace that has evaded me for most of my life.

Not a fleeting peace that comes and goes, but a peace that ebbs and flows with life itself. One that sinks below the surface, deep into my bones, and burrows there with great permanency.

One that gives me the courage I need to close this chapter and walk into the next one. I might always reread the old pages, but the time for rewrites has ended.

It’s time to let go of what was, and welcome what is.

Epilogue

Mommy and Daddy

Colton

May, Day Following the Adoption

“Don’t move,” Milo orders, holding up a staying hand.

I barely breathe, even though it leaves me standing on one foot like a wobbly flamingo, arms shot out sideways for balance. It doesn’t help that the dock is scorching my skin, but I take it just to obey my son’s command.

“Can I talk?” I ask through tight lips.

“Yes!” he exclaims. Paint drips from his brush and he bounces on his toes on a threadbare beach towel. “I’m almost done!”

By almost done, he might mean thirty more seconds or thirty more minutes. He takes after Cheyenne when it comes to creativity. Something my wife fully supports—which is why we’re here. Milo, with a child-sized easel and canvas, and me, balancing on my better leg for what feels like forever.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“You know that I was standing on both feet when you started,” I say. “Right?”

Milo doesn’t look up from the canvas, tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. I resist shaking my head at his nonresponse and I startle when he squeals.

“You can move!” He carefully sets his brush on the tray and holds that same hand out again. “But don’t look!”

“Don’t look?” I repeat incredulously. “You mean I stood like that for forever but I don’t even get to see it?”

Grinning, he nods emphatically.

“Well, I guess I’ll just go, then.” Feigning sadness, I drop my chin to my chest and turn for the lake house, moving at sloth speed. Slower, if possible. “I’ll be okay, though. No, really, I will be.”

Milo laughs. I hear his bare feet patter across the dock before he jumps in front of me. He plants his hands on my stomach to try and stop me.

“Don’t go,” he says, laughing, my slow movement scooting him backwards. “Please don’t go!”

I lift my head, eyes droopy, and look at him blandly. “I have to. Otherwise,” I add, sniffling loudly, “I might cry. Can I use your shirt for a tissue?”

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