“I wish I could start those twenty years again,” he said softly.

“We can’t,” I told him.

“But we can be honest about the ones that come next.”

He nodded.

There was nothing more he needed to say.

At home I took the cedar box from the shelf and placed it beside Paige’s adoption album.

One had held a story we were afraid to speak.

The other had held the story we told ourselves every day.

Now they rested together, open to questions.

The woman over Gregory’s heart was never imaginary.

She had been someone’s daughter, someone’s mother, and a person who deserved her name.

And I had learned that the truth, even when it arrives late and hurts to hear, can still give us a more honest way to love.