Chapter 8 - The Cardinal
The Oregon coast in April was cold and bright and unreal.
I stood on a bluff above the Pacific one morning when the wind came in sharp enough to sting my eyes, and I thought: I spent fourteen years building somebody else's foundation, and the house still stands. And I'm up here over the ocean with a coat that fits and a retirement account somebody is finally taking care of, and there is not one automatic transfer anywhere in the world with my name on it that I didn't choose on purpose, with my eyes open.
That felt like the first full breath I'd taken in a very long time.
Trevor and I talk now. Not every week. Not easily. But honestly, which is more than we had before.
Camille and I are polite in the careful way of two people who've agreed, without ever saying so, not to open certain doors again. I don't know if that changes. I'm not waiting on it.
Ella and Owen come to my house once a month. They eat my food and fall asleep on my couch and ask me questions with nothing behind them, and they remind me, over and over, that love in its simplest form asks nothing of you but that you show up.
I've put seed out on the fence post every morning since January. The cardinal comes every day now.
Some things can be repaired.
Some things should not be restored.
I used to get those two confused. I don't anymore.
Before you go, I want to ask you something, and I want you to sit with it honestly.
May you like
If you pulled yourself out of someone's life tomorrow — not just the money, not just the favors, but your presence, your patience, your forgiveness, your time — how long would it take them to notice that what they lost was you, and not just what you handed them?
If you already know the answer, maybe it's time to start acting like you do.
