Chapter 7
The first year without Emily was the hardest.
Not the big moments. The trial. The sentencing. The move. Those I could handle. I was trained for chaos. Trained for the hard things.
It was the small moments that destroyed me.
Coming home from the grocery store and reaching for my phone to tell her I was on my way.
Rolling over in the middle of the night and reaching for her, only to find empty sheets.
Hearing a song on the radio that was our song and having to pull the truck over because I couldn’t breathe.
The baby’s first word.
“Mama.”
He said it on a Tuesday morning.
I was feeding him oatmeal. He looked up at me, mouth full, and said it clear as day.
“Mama.”
I dropped the spoon.
He said it again.
“Mama.”
I picked him up and held him.
And I cried.
For an hour.
He patted my back like he knew. Like he understood.
Sarah came over that night with dinner. She found me on the couch, the baby asleep on my chest, the house dark.
She didn’t say anything.
She just put the food in the fridge, covered me with a blanket, and sat with me until I stopped shaking.
“I miss her so much,” I whispered.
“I know,” she said. “I do too. Every single day.”
The foundation kept me busy.
By the end of the first year, Emily’s Voice had helped over two hundred women. We had expanded to three offices in Georgia. We had a board of directors. We had fundraisers. We had volunteers.
It was working.
But there were days when I wondered if any of it was enough.
Days when I would hold my son and wish I could trade every woman we had ever helped for just five more minutes with his mother.
I never told Sarah that.
I never told anyone.
But it was true.
The baby’s first birthday came in June.
We had a big party in the backyard.
All our friends came. Jake. His new girlfriend, Mia. The people from the foundation. The neighbors.
There was a bounce house. A clown. A cake shaped like a blue elephant.
I put a candle in the cake and carried him to the table.
Everyone sang.
He clapped. He drooled. He tried to grab the flame.
I helped him blow out the candle.
“Make a wish, little man,” I said.
I wished for Emily.
That night, after everyone left, I opened the letter she had written for his first birthday.
To My Dearest Son On Your First Birthday,
Happy Birthday, my sweet boy!
I’m writing this when you’re still inside me, kicking like a soccer player, and I already love you more than words can say. I try to imagine what you’ll look like at one. Will you have your daddy’s curly hair? My brown eyes? Will you be walking already? Or still crawling everywhere, getting into everything like I did when I was your age?
I wish more than anything I could be there to see it. To hold you. To kiss your chubby little cheeks. To sing you your bedtime song. To be the one who wipes your tears when you fall down.
But if I’m not there, your daddy will be. And he is the best man in the whole world. He will take care of you. He will love you more than anything. He will teach you to throw a ball and ride a bike and stand up for people who can’t stand up for themselves.
You are so lucky to have him.
And he is so lucky to have you.
I want you to know something, baby. Even though you can’t see me, I’m with you. Every single day. I’m in the wind that blows through the trees. I’m in the sun that warms your face. I’m in every laugh you have. Every tear you cry. I’m there.
I love you to the moon and back.
Forever and ever.
— Your Mommy
I put the letter in the special box I kept under my bed—the box with all her letters. The memory card. Her wedding ring. The cloth doll I had brought home from Montana.
I would give it to him when he was old enough to understand.
When he was old enough to know how much his mother had loved him.
How hard she had fought for him.
Life settled into a rhythm after that.
I went to the foundation office three days a week. I handled the security side of things—helping women move safely, dealing with angry ex-husbands, making sure our offices and shelters were secure.
Sarah ran the operations.
Jake volunteered on weekends. He taught self-defense classes at the shelter. The women loved him. Big, scary-looking Jake with the heart of a teddy bear.
The baby grew.
He walked at fourteen months.
He talked in full sentences by two.
He was smart. Curious. Fearless. Just like his mother.
Every night before bed, I told him a story about her.
“Tell me about Mommy again,” he would say, his eyes wide.
And I would.
I told him about the coffee shop.
About the wedding in the rain.
About how she used to sing to him when he was inside her.
About how brave she was.
He would fall asleep with a smile on his face.
And I would sit there in the dark, wondering if I was doing enough.
If I was raising him right.
If she would be proud.
The second anniversary of Emily’s death came and went.
I took the baby to the cemetery.
We brought flowers. Blue ones. Her favorite.
He helped me arrange them on the grave.
“Hi, Mommy,” he said, his little voice echoing across the grass. “I had mac and cheese for lunch. And I learned to count to ten. Wanna hear? One, two, three—”
He counted all the way to ten.
Then he sang her the song I had taught him.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
How I wonder what you are.
I held his hand while he sang.
When he finished, he turned to me.
“Does she hear me, Daddy?”
I knelt down so I was eye level with him.
“She hears every single word, buddy. Every single one.”
“Good,” he said, satisfied. “I tell her everything.”
We stayed for an hour.
Then we went home.
That night, I got a phone call from Detective Marquez.
“Hey, Ryan,” she said. “Long time no talk.”
“Hey. Everything okay?”
“Fine. Just wanted to give you a heads-up. Your mother appealed her conviction last month. The appeals court just denied it. Unanimous. She’s never getting out. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate the call.”
“Also—Kevin is up for parole in three years. The board asked for a victim impact statement. If you want to submit one, the deadline is the end of next month.”
I thought about it.
Kevin.
Twelve years in prison had changed him, according to the letters he had started sending me six months before.
He had found God.
He had gotten his GED.
He ran the prison library.
He apologized in every letter. Said he was weak. Said he was sorry. Said he thought about Emily every single day.
I had never written back.
I didn’t know if I ever would.
“I’ll think about it,” I told Marquez.
“Okay. No pressure. Just wanted you to know.”
She hung up.
I stood by the kitchen window, looking out at the backyard where the baby was chasing fireflies.
Sarah came up behind me.
“Everything okay?”
“Marquez called. Mom’s appeal was denied. Kevin’s up for parole in three years. They want a statement from me.”
Sarah was quiet.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Part of me wants to tell the board to keep him in there forever. That he deserves to rot. But another part…”
I trailed off.
“Another part what?”
“Another part remembers what it was like growing up with her,” I said. “How she controlled everything. Every decision. Every thought. Kevin never had a chance. Not really. She made him into what he was. Just like she tried to make me into her image. I got out. Joined the army. Saw the world. Kevin never left. He was trapped in that house with her for forty years. I don’t know what I would have become if I had stayed.”
Sarah put her hand on my arm.
“Forgiveness doesn’t mean what he did was okay,” she said. “It just means you’re not going to let it poison you anymore. Emily would want you to be free, Ryan. Completely free.”
I nodded.
“I know.”
I didn’t write the statement that night.
Or the next.
I waited until the last day.
May you like
Then I sat down at the kitchen table with a pen and a piece of paper.
And I wrote.
