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I press the photo to the base of the gravestone, tucking it gently beneath a smooth stone. A small offering. A bridge between what was and what is.

“And the boys… God. You’d be obsessed with them,” I say with a quiet laugh. “Kody’s got this fierce little growl when he’s mad, like he’s ready to take on the world. And Kingston—your namesake—he’s so soft. So thoughtful. Already watching the room like he’s reading every person in it.”

My throat tightens. “They saved me too, you know. They made me want to live. Not just survive… live. For every smile. Every sleepless night. Every time Kody spits up on Fletch and he pretends it’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to him, even though I know he loves every second.”

The tears fall freely now, but they’re not sharp or gasping or bitter. They’re soft. Gentle. Honest.

“I love them with every part of me. The same way I loved you back then. But it’s different now. Not smaller. Just… deeper. Rooted. Real in a way it couldn’t be at seventeen.”

I press a kiss to my fingers and lay them against the stone one last time.

“You were my beginning,” I whisper again. “But you’re not my end.”

And for the first time in almost ten years, I believe it.

Not because I’ve stopped loving Kingston.

But because love doesn’t always mean holding on.

Sometimes, it means knowing when to let go—so you can finally move forward.

And I swear, for a second, I feel the warmth of sunlight break through the clouds and land right on my skin like a yes.

We stay a little longer. Me and my dad. Me and Kingston.

And when we finally leave, I don’t look back.

Because some ghosts don’t need haunting.

Some ghosts just need to know you made it.

I stay kneeling in front of the headstone a little longer, feeling the pull of goodbye tug gently at my ribs. It’s not sharp anymore. Not jagged. Just a soft ache, like a song you loved once that you haven’t heard in years.

When I finally stand, brushing my hands against the worn denim of my jeans, my dad shifts beside me. There’s something weighted in the way he glances over, like he’s carrying one more thing he’s not sure how to set down.

He clears his throat. “Your mom knows you’re here,” he says quietly. “I… I couldn’t keep it from her.”

I nod slowly, the breeze teasing loose strands of hair across my cheek.

“She wants to see you,” he adds. “If you’re up for it.”

There’s no sting of anger when he says it. No old wound ripping back open.

Just… a slow, steady breath pushing through my lungs.

Because the truth is, we already did the hard part.

When I came home from the hospital—broken and stitched back together in ways nobody could see—she came to Texas. She showed up. And for the first time in years, we faced each other without all the old armor. Without pretending we hadn’t hurt each other

We talked. We cried. We forgave, in the messy, imperfect way people do when they’re tired of carrying too much weight alone.

But that was months ago. A lifetime ago. And since then, life swept us both back into our own worlds—me into sleepless nights and first smiles, her back into the life she built without me.

We haven’t seen each other since.

And standing here now, with the boys waiting for me at home, with Fletch’s laugh still tucked somewhere in my pocket like a promise, I realize I’m not angry anymore.

Not even a little bit.