Chapter 9
The next six months were the happiest of my life.
My mom went into full remission.
The doctors said it was a miracle.
She moved into the lake cottage with me.
Spent her days sitting on the porch, knitting, feeding the ducks, watching the sunset.
She said it was the first time she’d felt truly at peace since my dad died.
I started my construction business.
Carter Construction.
I used the tools Evelyn had bought me.
The first job was fixing up the yellow house on Oak Street for Lila.
New roof.
New kitchen.
Fixed the old porch swing so it didn’t creak anymore.
Lila cried when she saw it.
Said Evelyn would have loved it.
She used the money Evelyn left to expand the animal shelter.
Doubled its size.
Hired more staff.
I volunteered there every weekend.
Built new dog runs.
Fixed the cat trees.
Sat with the scared animals, the ones no one wanted, and told them they were safe.
I knew what it felt like to be unwanted.
To have no one.
I wasn’t going to let any of them feel that way.
Lila and I became inseparable.
She called me her little brother, even though I was three years older.
She came to the cottage every Sunday for dinner.
We’d cook, eat, talk about Evelyn, laugh until our sides hurt.
For the first time since I was a kid, I had a real family.
Mom.
Lila.
Me.
And Evelyn, always with us, in every little thing we did.
I still had bad days.
Days when I’d wake up, and the guilt would hit me so hard I could barely get out of bed.
Days when I’d think about all the time I wasted, counting down the days instead of loving her the way she deserved.
Lila would find me, sit with me, and say the same thing every time.
“She didn’t want your guilt, Ethan. She wanted your joy. Live the life she gave you. That’s how you make it up to her.”
And slowly, the guilt got lighter.
I started to believe I deserved the good things I had.
That Evelyn had been right about me all along.
That I was a good man.
One cold Saturday in November, exactly two years to the day I’d married Evelyn, Lila showed up at the cottage with a big box.
She was grinning like she had a secret.
“What’s that?” I asked, wiping my hands on my jeans. I’d been chopping wood for the fireplace.
“One more thing Evelyn left for me to give you. She said I had to wait until the two-year anniversary. Said you’d be ready by then.”
She set the box on the kitchen table.
It was wrapped in yellow paper, with a big bow on top.
My name was on the tag, in her handwriting.
I opened it slow.
Inside, the old leather journal she’d carried everywhere.
The one she wrote in every night before bed.
I’d never been allowed to read it.
She’d always said it was private.
A note was taped to the cover:
For my boy. Read it when you’re ready to stop feeling guilty and start living. I love you forever.
I sat down, opened the journal to the first page.
Dated the day after we got married.
I read for hours.
Every page was about me.
The good days.
The bad days.
The days I was distant, cold, counting down.
The days I’d make her tea, or fix something around the house, or laugh at her jokes, and she’d write about how her heart felt so full it might burst.
She wrote about the day she found my mom’s medical bills.
How she’d paid them off that same day.
How she’d gone to visit my mom at the nursing home, and they’d talked for hours, and my mom had told her what a good boy I was.
She wrote about the cottage.
The tools.
The bank account.
How she’d planned every single gift for months, waiting for the right time to give them to me.
And on the last page, dated the night before she collapsed:
Today Ethan told me he loved me.
He didn’t know I was awake.
He thought I was napping on the couch.
He brushed the hair off my face, kissed my forehead, and whispered “I love you, Evie. Thank you for everything.”
I laid there for an hour after he left, crying happy tears.
I didn’t need him to say it out loud.
I’d known it for months.
I got everything I ever wanted from this life.
A husband who loved me.
A home full of laughter.
A family to call my own.
I have no regrets.
None.
If I had to do it all over again, I’d marry him the exact same way.
Even if I knew I’d only get 18 months.
18 months of love is better than a lifetime of loneliness.
Don’t ever feel guilty, my sweet boy.
You gave me more than I ever gave you.
Now go live.
Be happy.
That’s all I ever wanted.
I closed the journal, held it to my chest, and cried.
But they weren’t sad tears.
They were tears of love.
May you like
Of gratitude.
Of finally, finally being at peace.
