has your eyes in my dreams.”
I smiled through tears.
“And your stubbornness.”
Iris laughed softly.
It was a sound I had once feared I would never hear again.
We placed a small stone near the tree.
On it were the words we had chosen together: Ada Shaw.
Loved before her first breath.
Remembered with every season.
As the afternoon light moved across the clearing, Iris rested her head against my shoulder.
“Dad always said strength meant making everyone afraid of you,” she whispered.
I looked toward the farmhouse.
“And what do you think now?”
She considered the question.
“I think strength is being able to walk away from people who hurt you.
And letting good people help when you can’t carry everything yourself.”
I kissed her forehead.
There had been a moment outside the hospital ICU when Gordon Bellamy believed nine men could frighten me into silence.
He had been wrong about what kind of soldier I was.
But more importantly, he had been wrong about my wife.
She was never the helpless daughter he believed he could control.
She was the woman who documented the truth before anyone else knew how dangerous that truth would become.
And when she survived, she helped bring it into the open.
Gordon had surrounded himself with men who were willing to hurt someone for him.
Iris surrounded herself with people who were willing to help her heal.
As we walked back toward the farmhouse, she slipped her hand into mine.
Behind us, the new tree stood in the spring sunshine.
It could not replace our daughter.
Nothing ever would.
But someday its branches would be full of blossoms.
And Iris had decided that when that day came, she wanted to be there to see them.
