Chapter 16 - The Photograph That Broke Me
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I pulled a heavy, leather-bound photo album from the bottom drawer, intending to toss it directly into a labeled box. But the album slipped from my grasp, hitting the hardwood floor and falling open to a page near the middle.
I froze.
Staring up at me was a photograph from exactly two years ago. Julian was asleep on the couch in our living room, wearing a soft gray t-shirt. Lying flat on his broad chest, rising and falling with every breath he took, was a tiny, one-month-old Harrison. Julian’s large hand was resting protectively over our son’s fragile back. It was a moment of pure, undisputed, overwhelming love.
I dropped to my knees on the floor.
The adrenaline abruptly ran out, leaving me completely defenseless against the tidal wave of grief. I stared at the photo, tracing Julian’s sleeping face with my trembling finger.
I hated him with a fiery, consuming passion. I hated him for Isabel, for Aspen, for the lies, and for destroying our family. But looking at that picture, I also loved him. I missed the man in that photograph. I wanted never to see him again, and yet I wanted to crawl into his arms and beg him to fix the nightmare he had created.
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The conflicting emotions tore through me, ripping a ragged sob from my throat. I sat on the floor of my half-empty bedroom for nearly ten minutes, weeping bitterly over the death of a man who was still very much alive.
Courage, I realized in that moment, did not feel powerful or triumphant. Courage felt like signing divorce forms with shaking hands while desperately wondering whether I was destroying my son’s family, or finally refusing to pretend it was still whole.
