Afterward, we went home together.
Straight to Owen’s room.
Charlie knelt beside the little table and pried up the loose tile with a butter knife. Beneath it was a small gift box.
Inside was a wooden sculpture.
Three figures.
A man, a woman, and a boy standing between them.
It was rough in places, smooth in others, unmistakably made by Owen’s hands.
Under it was another note.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth straight out, Mom. I wanted you to see Dad’s heart for yourself before a letter did the talking for me. I know both of you have been trying, even when it was messy and hard. I also need you to know that I was lucky. Not every kid gets parents who love the way you and Dad do. I love you both more than you know.”
I read it twice before I could cry.
Then I broke.
Charlie broke too.
We sat on Owen’s floor and held each other for the first time since the funeral. This time, when I reached for him, he didn’t pull away. He held on like a man who had finally run out of places to hide.
After a while, he drew back.
“There’s something else,” he said.
He unbuttoned his shirt.
Over his heart was a tattoo of Owen’s face. Small. Detailed. Tender.
“I got it after the funeral,” he said. “I didn’t let you hug me because it was still healing. And I didn’t show you because you hate tattoos, and I couldn’t handle one more thing being wrong.”
I laughed through my tears.
My first real laugh since before the lake.
“It’s the only tattoo I’ll ever love,” I told him.
It didn’t fix everything.
Grief doesn’t work that way.
