Violet started crying.
“Neither do I, Violet. This is harder than anything I’ve ever had to do.”
I looked down at Cecelia.
“But she doesn’t need us to know yet.”
***
Six months later, Violet sat on my living-room rug while Cecelia fought with a wooden block.
Our relationship wasn’t fixed.
“Neither do I.”
It was healing.
Violet asked before visiting now.
She asked before picking Cecelia up.
And when she missed Mark, she said she missed Mark.
That afternoon, Cecelia grabbed the block so tightly her knuckles went white.
Violet smiled.
It was healing.
“Look at that grip.”
I laughed.
“Just like Mark.”
Violet looked at me.
Then she looked at Cecelia again.
For a second, I saw the old instinct in her face.
“Just like Mark.”
The need to find her son everywhere.
Then she shook her head.
“No.”
She touched Cecelia’s tiny hand.
“That’s hers.”
She shook her head.
Cecelia squealed and threw the block into Violet’s lap.
Violet laughed.
So did I.
And for the first time since Mark died, neither of us needed Cecelia to prove he was still here.
We could miss him.
We could love him.
And she could become entirely herself.
