The pain slowly turned into anger.
I imagined confronting Claire.
I imagined asking how she could leave her children without a word.
How could she allow them to believe she had died?
How could she allow me to carry the weight of her disappearance while she walked along another beach wearing a new dress and holding another man’s hand?
Then guilt followed the anger.
Part of me still loved her.
Part of me wanted the woman in the photograph to be Claire because it would mean she had survived.
Another part of me desperately needed it not to be her.
Noah stared through the passenger window.
Finally, he said, “I’m sorry, Dad.”
“For what?”
“For bringing this home.”
I glanced at him.
“You did the right thing.”
“Even if it destroys everything?”
“The truth doesn’t destroy things, son. It shows us what was already broken.”
At the time, I was not sure I believed my own words.
