That evening, we sat on the porch, much like we had a thousand times before. The secret of their father stayed with me, a heavy stone I would eventually take to my own grave. But as I looked at the four of them—strong, capable, and full of light—I realized the stone wasn’t a burden anymore. It was an anchor. It had held us steady through the storm so they could reach the shore.
I closed my eyes and felt the cool evening breeze. I had started over at seventy-one. I had fought a war for their peace. And as the sun dipped below the horizon, I finally felt Darla’s hand on my shoulder, whispering the words I’d waited a lifetime to hear:
Well done, Mom. You can rest now.
