“I was protecting you.”
“No. You were controlling what I knew.”
She took a step forward.
I stepped back.
“The money will be accounted for,” I said. “Every dollar that can be recovered will go to Ethan’s memorial fund. The letters and his belongings stay with me.”
“Diane, you’re making this worse.”
“You made it worse years ago.”
“I was grieving too.”
“So was I.”
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You could have told me the truth.”
She began to sob.
For a moment, I almost felt sorry for her. Then I looked at the folder in my hands and remembered how many years I had spent believing Ethan had left me with nothing but silence.
“Love isn’t measured by how much pain you claim to have endured,” I said. “It’s measured by what you refuse to do to someone else while you’re hurting.”
