When Michael came home two days later, I was calm. I had thought about what I wanted to say.
We sat together at the kitchen table. I placed his letter between us without a word.
He looked at it. Then he looked at me.
He asked if I was angry.
I told him no. I told him I was not angry at all.
But I had one question.
I reached across the table and took his hand.
“Why,” I asked quietly, “did you not let me be part of this from the beginning?”
His eyes filled up. He did not have an answer ready. He just squeezed my hand and looked down at the table.
I moved around to his side and put my arms around him.
And for the first time in months, everything in me was still.
The Journey to Cebu
Continued on the next page
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