He read the words.
Once.
Twice.
Then pressed it to his chest.
For a long time, he couldn’t speak.
Finally, he whispered, “I spent my whole life thinking he didn’t want me.”
His fingers tightened around the wings.
“And he thought I didn’t want him.”
“He loved you,” I said. “But he hurt you too.”
Jeremy nodded.
“He should’ve opened that door.”
“Yes.”
He looked at our daughters.
“And I should’ve told you.”
“Yes.”
“I almost did the same thing to them.”
I took his hand.
“Then don’t.”
He looked at the airplane.
Then at his girls.
“I won’t.”
Recovery wasn’t instant.
There were appointments.
Painful exercises.
Days when he needed help.
And conversations neither of us could avoid anymore.
But Jeremy stopped hiding.
He came home in his wheelchair.
We took the photograph we’d imagined for months.
Both daughters in his arms.
