For several minutes, I sat with the letter against my chest.
Then I looked toward the mantel.
Claire's photograph.
My terrible pancakes.
And the children growing older in a home that finally felt like theirs again.
That evening, I asked Ethan and Nia whether they'd like to go to Maine during summer vacation.
Ethan looked up from his laptop.
“Maine?”
I nodded.
Nia's eyes widened.
“The cabin?”
I smiled.
“If it's available.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Nia asked.
“Like when Mom used to take us?”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
Ethan looked toward his sister.
Then back at me.
“Can I bring my camera?”
I laughed.
“Of course.”
Nia grinned.
“Mine too?”
“Absolutely.”
She smiled.
Then asked.
“Are you going to try making a campfire again?”
I stared at her.
Ethan burst into laughter.
I shook my head.
“Your mother told you about that?”
Both children nodded.
Nia laughed.
“She said you nearly burned your eyebrows off.”
I covered my face.
“That woman told you entirely too much.”
They laughed harder.
And for a few minutes, Claire was in the room with us.
Not as a painful secret.
Not as a tragedy we were afraid to discuss.
But as the mother who loved us.
The woman who laughed at my terrible outdoor skills.
And the person whose courage had helped uncover a truth that powerful people tried to bury.
We went to Maine that summer.
The cabin was smaller than I remembered.
The beach was windier.
And Ethan complained that the internet connection was terrible.
Nia took hundreds of photographs.
We cooked dinner together.
Walked along the shore.
And sat outside watching the waves as the evening grew cool.
One night, Ethan asked whether I ever wished we could go back.
I looked toward him.
“To when Mom was alive?”
He nodded.
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Then I answered.
“Every day.”
He looked down.
I continued.
“But I also want to be here with you now.”
He raised his head.
I smiled.
“Both things can be true.”
He considered.
Then nodded.
Nia leaned against my shoulder.
For several minutes, we watched the water.
No one asked another question.
We didn't need to.
We were together.
We knew the truth.
And nobody in our family had to carry it alone anymore.