I kept all of Emily's things.
And I sent copies of the photos and voice recordings to his other family. I didn't include a letter or statement. It's exactly the truth, because my son had kept it.
They deserved to know what he was hiding. I didn't do it out of malice. I did it because they were living the same lie I was. And no one deserves to be surprised by a life they didn't choose.
David lives alone and pays child support to two families who no longer trust him.
And me? Some nights I sit in Emily's room, clutching her sweatshirt to my chest, listening to the last message she left me. I close my eyes and press my face against the fabric.
Even when he died, my daughter told me the truth. And so I began to let go of David.
Linda returned the next day. A month had passed since Emily's funeral.
He didn't ring the doorbell; he simply let himself in with the spare key and moved silently through the house, as if unwilling to awaken something sacred. I sat on the floor in Emily's room, her sweatshirt in my lap, the window open just enough to let in a breeze.
Linda sat down next to me without saying a word. After a moment, she took my hand and held it in hers, warm and comforting.
“I don’t know what to do,” I whispered.
“I know,” she replied softly. “And you don’t have to know. You just have to breathe.”
“I feel like if I let myself go with everything… if I really said everything… I would collapse.”
He looked at me with glassy but clear eyes.
