“You showed me, or reminded me about unconditional love.”

“Oh … you didn’t do this because …”

“I didn’t get divorced for you, or for anyone.”

“Okay.”

“But here’s the thing: once I remembered, felt, and saw unconditional love—anything else was dark and awful.” My words are rushed, quick, as if someone had turned on the faucet of withheld words full blast. “This wasn’t about you, Hutch. And it wasn’t for you. But it was about your love. And I guess that’s all I wanted to say. It was about your love. That kind of love. And I miss you terribly. And I’m sorry for any pain I ever caused … and …”

“Shhh.” He places a single finger over my lips. “Stop. I don’t want you to be sorry anymore.” He pulls me against him for a brief moment. We don’t speak because there really is nothing left to say. “We should get back in to the show.” He releases me abruptly and stands.

“You go ahead,” I say. “I’ll be a minute.”

“Okay … .” He touches my cheek and then is gone, shadow blending into shadow.

When I enter the room, I see Dad is looking for me and I wave to him. He walks toward me. “Where have you been, Ladybug?”

“I needed some fresh air. You ready to go?”

“Very,” he says. “I can’t even find any more words for small talk.”

“Me neither.”

Dad and I drive home in silence until he pulls into the driveway and presses the garage door button at the top of his dashboard. “Ellie, why would anyone delete an entire year of their life?” He doesn’t turn to me as he watches the garage door lift, grinding into the night.

This is the first time Dad has asked me anything about Mother, and the weight of it squats my chest. I look to him and tell the truth. “We all have our own way, Dad.”

“Own way?” He turns to me now, the garage door open and waiting for us to enter.

“To live our broken lives.”

“Yes,” he says, his foot still on the brake. “Yes, you’re right.” And then he presses on the gas and parks as the garage door closes behind us.

The restlessness born of unanswered questions kept me awake most of the night, but this morning I find fragments of peace in Mother’s garden. The flowers in the early sun are a brilliant array of colors, almost too vivid to be real. I am clipping marigolds for the breakfast table. Wrapped in a long cardigan and wearing jeans, I pick a weed from the rose bed, the only weed I can see. Dad has hired a full-time gardener to keep Mother’s garden pristine. It is his monument to her. I often see him walking through the lanes and pathways when I know he never entered this sacred ground when she was alive.