Every day he not only beat me but also poured boiling water on me, roaring, ""I'll boil your belly until a son comes out!""

That afternoon, to give my mind a break from the medical horrors, Evelyn opened the plastic folder she had brought with her.

"I want to show you what you missed," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "I’m not doing this to make you sad. I’m doing this because I want you to know the door was always open."

She pulled out a photograph. It showed Evelyn standing in front of a small, charming house with a yellow front door, holding a scruffy brown dog wearing a red bandanna.

"I got a dog," she smiled. "His name is Walter. He looks like a retired accountant and he snores louder than a freight train."

I traced the edge of the photo. "You look happy, Evie."

"I am," she said. She pulled out another photo, and this one made my breath catch.

It was a wedding picture. Evelyn was wearing a simple, beautiful cream dress, holding a bouquet of yellow wildflowers. Beside her stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with a kind smile, his hand resting protectively on her waist.

"You got married," I whispered, the weight of the lost years pressing down on my chest.

"Three years ago," she said. "His name is David. He’s a high school history teacher. He makes terrible coffee, but he’s the best man I’ve ever known."

I stared at the photograph, taking in the small, intimate ceremony. And then, I noticed it. In the very front row, sitting on an otherwise empty wooden folding chair, was a bright blue ribbon tied around the backrest.

"The blue bicycle," I said, fresh tears welling in my eyes.

Evelyn nodded, swiping a tear from her own cheek. "I reserved a seat for you. I tied the ribbon there so I would feel like you were with me. I kept hoping you would walk in late."