“I’m not throwing this away,” he said. “But this is the last time I stay silent.”
Then, firmly:
“You don’t get to erase his mother. And you don’t get to hurt my son again.”
The next day, she called us all into the living room.
Noah sat beside me.
My son stood behind him.
Rebecca faced us, quiet… shaken.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
She looked at Noah.
“I thought… if I pushed hard enough, maybe you’d let go of your mom. Maybe there’d be space for me.”
Her voice broke.
“I didn’t understand what those sweaters meant. I do now.”
A moment later, she stepped outside.
When she came back, she held the same wooden box—but empty.
