“You were a child trying to make a decision you didn’t understand.”
“I should have come home.”
“You’re safe now.”
She stared at me as if she didn’t know what to do with those words.
Michael wrapped both arms around us.
“We believe you,” he said.
Nora looked at him.
“All of it?”
“All of it.”
“You don’t think I was stupid?”
Michael’s voice broke.
“I think you were sixteen.”
That was when she completely fell apart.
We talked for hours.
Not enough to cover eight years.
Nora calls twice a week.
Sometimes more.
Michael visits once a month.
I probably send too many messages, but she hasn’t complained yet.
She enrolled in two classes.
She still works at the café.
She still sees Elaine.
And she still has difficult days.
So do we.
There is no version of this story where eight missing years disappear because we hugged and cried together.
