For not being able to stop the pain.
This wasn’t an easy thing to do—I almost stopped countless times.
But after years of watching over your shoulder as you typed, reading the paragraphs you chose, and feeling the love you had for me, it was finally my turn.
My turn to write you a love story.
And, God, what a love story it is.
You were the air I breathed and the life in my heart, Della.
You are the sole reason I existed and always will be.
Without you, I would never have been a father, brother, or husband.
Without you, I would never have known exquisite joy and utter heartbreak.
Without you, I would have been nothing.
And because of you…I am something.
I am loved.
I am missed.
I am wanted.
I was sold to the Mclary’s for one purpose and one purpose only.
To find you.
And I’ll find you again…soon.
This isn’t the end…we both know that.
I’ll be waiting…somewhere.
I’ll be watching…somehow.
And when the time comes for you to join me, I’ll gather you in my arms and hold you tight.
Come find me.
Come find me on the meadow where the sun always shines, the river always flows, and the forest always welcomes.
Come find me, Little Ribbon, and there we’ll live for eternity.
And now, because I can’t stand to leave this tale so unfinished, please read the end.
The end I wrote for you.
Until we meet again…
I love you.
I closed the book.
Unable to read more.
Not prepared to endure more pain.
One day, I would read it.
But not today.
Today, I needed to grieve…truly grieve.
To weep and wail and admit that there would always be a piece of me forever broken. A piece of me that would always be lost until my dying breath delivered me back to my loved one.
But even in my grief, I had responsibilities. I had a son who missed his father, and I had a world that needed to continue.
So, as I clawed my way to my feet, hugged Ren’s book to my chest, and stepped from the willow’s comforting fronds, I made a promise to keep going.
To do what Ren had said.
To let go…if only for a second.
My eyes fell on Jacob.
He sat in the middle of the hay field, golden all around him, gold sun above him, gold future ahead of him, and my heart did what it hadn’t been able to do. What I never believed I was capable of.
It healed…just a little.
It accepted…just a little.
Our love story wasn’t over.
It was just…paused.
With my white dress fluttering around my legs, I strode into the sunlight, carrying truth and heartache and everlasting love.
I was lucky.
Eternally lucky to have loved and cherished and adored.
And when that day came when this life was over, I would find that love again.
I would go home to him.
Because our story had never been about a fleeting romance or fairy-tale. It had always been about life.
It was about love.
It was about the journey from nothing to something.
The travels from individual to pair.
The adventure from empty to whole.
And that was what transformed mortal into magic.
It was what songs were made of.
What hearts were formed of.
What humans were born to become.
The sun shone brighter, drenching buttery light everywhere it touched.
The paddock was almost ready for baling.
The land providing routine and clockwork timing.
And as my son looked up from feeling my eyes upon him, he waved just like Ren used to. His hand switched into a come-hither, and I went.
I held my head tall. I let my tears fall. I allowed myself the freedom to love in all its painful, exquisite heartache.
And when I reached him, I sat in the wildflowers and hugged him.
He hugged me back, fiercely, healingly. “Did you read the end like he said?”
I shook my head. “I can’t.”
“You should.” He kissed my cheek as we pulled apart, so wise, so brave, so pure. “If he told you to, you should.”
I laughed gently. “Just like I did everything he told me, huh?”
“Yep.” He smirked, growing serious again. “There’s a whole box of books there. You should at least read one of them.”
“Maybe.”
“But what if it’s good?”
“Then it will be good when I’m ready.”
“But what if it makes you happy?”
I swallowed another wash of tears. “You make me happy. I don’t need anything else.”
He looked down, running his small hand through the blades of grass. “I miss him.”
“Yeah, me too.”
He picked a purple flower and held it to me. “Would you read me the story? If Dad wrote it, and you haven’t read it either, it’s kinda like him coming back, right?”
My chest squeezed as I took his gift and twirled the pretty petals. “Just because there are pages with his words on them doesn’t mean he’s alive, Wild One.”
“I know. But…” He looked up earnest and imploring and hopeful. “I think he would want you to read it.”
“I know.”
“Can I read it?”
“Not until I know what he’s written.” I tapped his nose, so similar to mine. “Not sure if it’s suitable for eleven-year-old nosy parkers.”