I talked to them while I worked.
I told them the names of plants.
I explained what roots needed, what sunlight did, why water mattered.
They did not understand yet.
That was fine.
There would be time.
That was what I kept returning to.
There was time.
We had survived the worst day given to us, and now there was time—ordinary, imperfect, precious time that belonged only to us.
Diane was not allowed near me or the children.
Blake’s visits began under supervision at a family facility with a social worker present. The girls were too young to understand what that meant, which was its own mercy.
I focused on what I could control.
I let the rest stay outside my home.
About a year after the twins were born, an envelope arrived with no return address.
Inside was a photograph of Blake standing alone beside a small lake. He looked healthier than he had in court. Older too. Quieter, somehow.
On the back, in careful handwriting, was one sentence:
I spend every birthday thanking God He gave you the strength I didn’t.
No excuse.
No request.
No plea.
Just a statement from a man who had taken a year to reach honesty.
I folded the photograph and placed it inside a small memory box on the shelf in my closet.
For a few days, I wondered why I kept it.
Eventually, I found an answer I could live with.
My daughters would ask about their father one day.
Children ask about absent parents directly, without the careful language adults use to soften difficult truths.
When they asked, I would tell them the truth.
Not a cruel version.
Not a simplified one.
The truth.
Their father loved them.
He loved their mother too.
But love is necessary, not sufficient.
