Then she asked me to explain.
So I did.
I showed her my yellow notebook.
Two hundred and eleven dated departures.
I explained the bedroom.
The funeral.
The medication.
And the dogwood.
Suzanne began crying when she recognized the nursery tag.
“You sold us that tree.”
“Yes.”
“You knew what it was for?”
“No.”
She covered her face.
For several moments, neither of us spoke.
Then she apologized.
She hadn’t known.
I believed her.
And for the first time, I realized that Avery’s family had been deceived too.
They had spent years grieving me.
I’d spent those same years believing they were ashamed of me.
Neither of us had known the truth.
Suzanne canceled the scholarship in my name.
She also asked whether I wanted the memorial tree removed.
I thought about that.
The dogwood was healthy.
It had been planted with genuine love, even if that love had been based on a terrible lie.
“Keep the tree,” I told her.
“But please remove the stone.”
She agreed.
Mitch eventually told Avery everything.
Their marriage went through a difficult period.
I didn’t involve myself in their arguments.
He’d spent years protecting his relationship at my expense.
Repairing it was his responsibility.
My father contacted me too.
He apologized for participating in the lie and admitted that he’d known I was alive after I left.
He simply hadn’t challenged my mother.
I wasn’t ready to forgive him.
But I appreciated that, for once, he hadn’t asked me to protect anyone.
Mom sent several messages.
Most explained why she’d done what she’d done.
None began with an apology.
I stopped reading them.
That spring, I was working among the apple trees when Suzanne sent me a photograph.
The memorial stone was gone.
The dogwood remained.
Its branches were covered in white blossoms.
She’d attached a short message.
I thought you’d like to see it blooming.
I looked at the photograph for a long time.
Then I opened my yellow notebook.
Two hundred and eleven departures.
Eight years of being told when to leave.
I turned to a clean page.
For the first time, I didn’t write another number.
I wrote one word.
Green.
Ruth had taught me years earlier that a tree could look dead after a terrible winter while remaining alive beneath its bark.
I’d spent so long being treated like someone who wasn’t there that I’d almost believed it myself.
