Chapter 24
James died five years later.
He was eighty-three years old.
He died in his sleep.
In our bed.
Holding my hand.
Just like he’d promised he would.
It was peaceful.
Beautiful.
The way death should be.
I held him for a long time after he was gone.
I didn’t cry.
Not at first.
I just held him.
Remembering.
Fifty-five years of marriage.
Fifty-five years of love.
Fifty-five years of laughter and tears and fighting and healing.
I remembered the first time I saw him.
Across a crowded college library.
He’d smiled at me.
And my heart had known.
I remembered our first date.
Our first kiss.
Our wedding day.
I remembered the night Daniel was born.
And died.
I remembered the night Lily was born.
The night we found Grace.
I remembered the trial.
The beach.
The vacations.
The parties.
The quiet nights on the porch swing.
I remembered it all.
Every moment.
Every touch.
Every word of love.
When the kids came, I finally cried.
We all cried.
Together.
We held each other.
We loved each other.
We got through it.
Together.
Just like we’d gotten through everything else.
We buried James under the big oak tree.
Right next to Clara.
Right next to Daniel.
Right next to Sunshine.
We put a stone with his name on it.
And the words: He loved well. He built well. He left the world better than he found it.
The days after James died were hard.
The house was too quiet.
Too empty.
The porch swing felt cold without him.
The bed felt too big.
Everything reminded me of him.
But I wasn’t alone.
I had Lily and Grace.
I had Liam and Noah.
I had the grandkids and the great-grandkids.
I had Darlene, now ninety and still going strong.
I had Sarah.
I had Detective Rao, now ninety-five and still sharp as a tack.
I had all my people.
They surrounded me with love.
They took care of me.
They held me when I cried.
They laughed with me when I remembered the funny things James had done.
Slowly, surely, the pain softened.
It never went away.
It never would.
But it became easier to bear.
Because I knew James wasn’t really gone.
He was in the big oak tree.
He was in the wind.
He was in the laughter of our great-grandkids.
He was in every home he’d built.
Every family he’d helped.
He was in my heart.
Always.
Forever.
And I knew.
With absolute certainty.
That he was with Daniel and Clara and Sunshine.
Waiting for me.
Saving me a spot on the porch swing in heaven.
I kept living.
Just like James would have wanted.
I kept working with the foundation.
We found our twelve hundredth missing child.
I kept speaking.
I kept advocating.
I kept fighting.
I wrote another book.
About James.
About our life together.
About love that lasts a lifetime.
It became a bestseller too.
I spent as much time as I could with the kids and grandkids and great-grandkids.
I told them stories.
About James.
About Clara.
About Daniel.
About all of it.
I taught them to love.
To forgive.
To fight for what’s right.
To never give up.
Because that was the greatest gift James and I could give them.
Our legacy.
Our love.
Our story.
One Sunday, about a year after James died, we had our usual big family dinner.
Twenty-five people around the table.
Laughing.
Talking.
Arguing.
Loving.
After dinner, we all went out to the yard.
The sun was setting.
The great-grandkids were chasing fireflies.
Lily came and sat beside me on the porch swing.
She held my hand.
“How are you doing, Mom?”
I smiled.
“I’m good, baby. Really good. I miss your daddy. Every minute of every day. But I’m okay. I know he’s with me. Always.”
Lily squeezed my hand.
“I miss him too. So much.”
“I know.”
We sat there for a long time.
Watching the family.
Watching the sunset.
“Mom?” Lily said.
“Yes, baby?”
“Do you ever think about her? About Margaret?”
I thought about it.
May you like
I hadn’t thought about Margaret in years.
She was
