Michael and I also began to rebuild our relationship slowly.
There were phone calls, cafes, arguments, apologies and sometimes silence.
Months later, we visited my mother's grave together.
Michael stayed in front of his tombstone for a long time.
“I thought I’d hate myself,” he whispered.
“I would have been angry,” I said. But I would have wanted you to come home.
He started crying.
This time, I put my hand on his shoulder.
It was not forgiveness.
Not completely.
But it was a beginning.
The following spring, I organized another Sunday dinner.
I prepared roasted meat again and used the same good tableware.
Tyler was there.
Noah was there.
Michael was sitting in front of me.
As I looked around the table, I thought on that first Sunday.
I had believed that a stranger had entered my kitchen wearing a necklace that belonged to my missing brother.
I thought I had called the police because I had found someone related to the past who had spent 21 years trying to understand.
But I was wrong.
The stranger was not the person he had lost.
He was the person who took me back to him.
