We developed our own rituals.
Sunday breakfast.
Wednesday phone calls.
Occasional trips to antique stores, where she helped Thomas search for pieces he could restore.
Sometimes she stayed overnight.
Sometimes we disagreed.
Once, we argued about a vacation plan and didn’t speak for an entire afternoon.
That evening, she called to apologize.
I laughed.
“You know we’re allowed to disagree, don’t you?”
There was a pause.
Then she said, “I’m still learning what this is supposed to feel like.”
“So am I.”
We laughed together.
And somehow that small, ordinary disagreement made us feel more like a family than any dramatic reunion could have.
The first March after we found each other, I woke before sunrise.
For twenty-eight years, that date had been unbearable.
I used to spend it alone.
Mark always claimed he couldn’t handle the sadness.
Now I understood that he’d simply refused to face the truth.
