“I forgive him,” I said quietly, shedding a tear for the man I loved, who’d died alone. “Because I’m 62 and too old to keep carrying anger.”
Then I lifted my teacup.
My children lifted theirs.
“To Robert,” I said.
“And to Mama,” Amanda added.
I shook my head, crying.
But all of them said it with her.
“To Mama!”
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And for the first time in years, the chair Robert left empty no longer felt like a wound.
It felt like part of the table we’d survived around.
