I wish I could sit beside her and tell her the truth.

I wish I could say that her second son was warm and safe, that he would love tomato plants and music and a boy named Wyatt, that one day he’d laugh at her kitchen table as if he’d always belonged there.

But I can’t travel backward.

I can only live differently now.

When Wyatt calls from the road, I answer.

When Austin sends me pictures of seedlings, I answer.