“Caleb,” I said, barely able to speak, “you can always tell me these things. You never have to be scared of me. You never disappoint me.”
He looked away, brushing at his face.
Aunt Abby… she lets me be just me.”
My chest ached as I stepped toward him.
I knelt down and wrapped my arms around him, holding him tight, the way I did when he was little and cried over scraped knees or bad dreams. “I love you,” I whispered.
“Exactly as you are. And I’m sorry if I made you feel like you had to hide things from me.”
Behind us, Abby let out a quiet breath. Her voice came gently.
“I didn’t mean to cause all this, Anna. I just wanted to help. I promise I won’t go behind your back again.
You’re his mom, and I respect that.”
I turned and reached for her hand. It trembled as I held it.
All of us. And we forgive. That’s what families do.”
She nodded, eyes glistening.
The three of us stood there in the entryway—me, my son, my sister—no longer perfect, but no longer hiding.
There was pain still in the room, but it was softer now. It was healing.
In that moment, I saw what mattered most wasn’t control or being right. It was listening.
It was loving through the mess. It was showing up, even when it’s hard.
We were still a family. And we would be okay.
It might inspire them and brighten their day.
