“When James comes home and mentions you,” she said quietly, “it’s the same tone. The same relief.”
I didn’t know what to say. I’m not good with heavy moments. I make jokes. I deflect. But there was no deflecting this.
“I didn’t do anything special,” I murmured.
She gave a small, knowing smile.
“That’s exactly the point.”
We stood there a second longer, the weight of grief and gratitude hanging in the air between us.
Then she did something I’ll never forget.
She stepped forward and hugged me.
It wasn’t rushed or awkward. It wasn’t dramatic. It was the kind of hug someone gives when they’ve been carrying something alone for too long and, just for a second, they can put a little of it down.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Continue on the next page:
