I can’t give them back the three years.

I’ve made my peace with the not-being-able, the way you make peace with a scar: not by pretending it isn’t there, but by letting it stop being the thing you look at.

I can’t undo the birthdays they thought I forgot, or the belief they carried that nobody was coming.

What I can do, I do, every single day, on purpose, the way you keep any promise worth keeping.

The pantry stays full.