“But—” I said, and my voice cracked before I could go on.
“But, nothing,” Evan said. “You are so many things to so many people, baby. To me, to Randy and Lisa, to Chandi and to Paula, and all your other employees. To the women you work with through the prison. Not to mention the animals you take care of every day. I feel like you don’t see any of how much you mean to us. How good you are. How loved. You can’t keep letting one decision define the whole of who you are. Whether it was right or wrong, you have to forgive yourself. You have to accept that it’s healthy to know your limits.” He leaned toward me and cupped my face in his large hands, locking his hazel eyes on mine. “You gave your girls their best chance. Even if their lives didn’t work out the way you hoped, you can choose to be happy they found each other now. And I’m telling you that what you need . . . your best chance . . . is to forgive yourself. You need to find a way to be okay with your decision. Really, truly, deep-down okay.”
I stared at my husband through teary eyes, blinking fast, trying to digest all he had said. “You don’t think I’m weak?”
“No,” he said, dropping his hands from my face. “I don’t.” He leaned forward and kissed both of my cheeks, then my lips, and I tasted the salt of my own tears. “I think you’re one of the strongest women I’ve ever known,” he continued. “Other people who’ve been through just one of the struggles you’ve faced might have been crushed. But not you. You kept going. You didn’t give up. No matter what, no matter how much pain you were in, you pushed ahead and kept trying to do the right things, make better choices, and live a good life.” He paused. “You wouldn’t be who you are or where you are without your faults, Jenny. And who you are is amazing.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. His words felt like balloons, lifting a leaden weight off my chest. I am more than my mistakes, I thought. I am stronger than I know. Evan was right—everything good in my life had only happened because of the things I’d done wrong. Everything was connected, linked to the moment I got pregnant with Brooke, and then that night when I left the girls alone in the car. Getting caught led me to prison, which ultimately led me to Randy and working with dogs. Working with dogs led me to Evan, a successful career, and eventually, being able to give back to others like me. Yes, I was a woman who couldn’t raise her own children, but as a result, I had become so much more than that. The kind of hurt my daughters had suffered—and were surely suffering through right now—was part of their lesson, just as my pain was a part of mine.
Still, I wished I could do something to make up for the damage I’d done. I remembered how easy it used to be to comfort Brooke with just the touch of her “soft side” blanket, and then later, how she gave it to her baby sister so Natalie could be comforted, too. Even if I couldn’t be in their lives, I wished for a way I could offer both of my daughters that kind of comfort now.
A thought struck me then, and I knew what I had to do. Without a word, I threw back the covers and scrambled out of bed.
Evan stood up, startled. “Where are you going?”
“The garage.” The air outside of the warm bed nipped at my skin; for three days, I’d only worn one of Evan’s white T-shirts, so I quickly dug through one of my drawers for a pair of sweats to replace it.
“Now?” he said, squinting at me.
“Yep,” I said as I changed my clothes. “Now.” I shoved my feet into a pair of his slippers.
“Jenny . . .” he began, but before he could finish, I opened the bedroom door and rushed down the hallway, through the living room, and into the garage. Glancing around at the shelves that lined two of the walls, I searched for the clear plastic box I opened only twice a year, finally spotting it on the highest shelf, next to the red and green Rubbermaid boxes that held our holiday decorations.
“What are you looking for?” Evan said as he walked up behind me.
“That,” I said, pointing toward the box.
His eyes followed the direction of my finger. “Our Christmas stuff?”
“No,” I said. I took the two steps down to the cement floor and pointed again. “The other box, next to those. The clear one.”
This time, he saw what I meant. “Your letters to the girls,” he said slowly, and I nodded.
“Are you sure reading them is a good idea right now?” he asked. “You’ve already had a rough couple of days.”
“I don’t want to read them,” I said, and my voice quavered. “I want to send them to my daughters.”