“Every day,” I said.
Later that night, after both children were asleep, I opened the letter Liam had left for them.
He told Ava to keep asking questions.
He told Ben to be kind, but not so kind that people could walk over him.
He told them both that taking care of their mother did not mean hiding their sadness.
At the bottom, he had written:
If your mom is reading this to you, it means she found her way through. I knew she would.
On the first anniversary of the crash, another rainy Thursday, I drove to the curve outside town for the first time since Liam died.
I brought flowers.
I stood in the drizzle, staring at the guardrail, the wet road, the place where everything had changed.
Then I saw something half-buried in the mud.
A small metal washer.
Blue paint still clung to one edge.
Part of Liam’s old keychain.
The one Ava had painted years ago and proudly called fancy.
I picked it up and smiled through tears.
Not because everything was healed.
But because Liam had left me a trail.
And I had followed it.
When I got home, Ava and Ben were waiting at the kitchen table with pancakes they had made badly by themselves.
They were uneven, half-burned, and drowning in syrup.
Ava grinned.
“We made dinner breakfast.”
Ben lifted his chin proudly.
“Mine is only burned on one side.”
