“Even if you’re not there?”
Mom held my gaze.
“Especially then.”
That landed differently now.
“Yours too. And Dad’s.”
The time capsule wasn’t a goodbye.
It was Mom making sure part of her story stayed ours, even while the rest still belonged to her.
For years, I thought loving Mom meant keeping her safe from every possible thing.
Now I knew better.
The time capsule wasn’t a goodbye.
Love wasn’t keeping her close enough that nothing could happen.
Love was trusting that she still had a life to live and letting her live it.
