Chapter 7 - The Night I Buried My Child
We held a small memorial two weeks after the trial.
Just Ethan and me, in the backyard of our house. We planted a small cherry tree where the nursery window overlooked the yard. Ethan had chosen it because cherry blossoms were my favorite.
We didn’t invite anyone else.
There was no one left to invite.
I stood in front of the small tree with a tiny white onesie in my hands — the one we had bought the day we found out I was pregnant. I had kept it hidden in my drawer.
Ethan wrapped his arms around me from behind as I knelt and placed the onesie at the base of the tree.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered to the baby we never got to meet. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you from them.”
Ethan’s voice was rough when he spoke.
“You did protect them,” he said. “You protected their memory. You made sure the people who hurt them paid for it.”
I stayed there until the sun went down.
When I finally stood up, something inside me had shifted.
The grief was still there. It probably always would be. But it no longer felt like it was going to drown me.
Ethan took my hand.
“We’re going to be okay,” he said.
I looked at him — my husband, the man who had held me together when my own family tried to destroy me.
May you like
“I know,” I said.
And for the first time since that afternoon on my parents’ living room floor, I actually believed it.
