Chapter 19
Diane died in prison when Jack was nineteen.
The notice came by mail.
Lucy called me.
Her voice was steady.
“She’s gone.”
I sat down.
“How do you feel?”
“Quiet.”
That was the right word.
Jack came home from college that weekend.
We told him together in the bakery after closing.
He listened.
Then walked to the shadow box and looked at the broken lock.
“I thought I’d feel happy.”
Lucy stood beside him.
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Sad?”
“No.”
“What then?”
Jack touched the glass.
“Finished.”
We did not hold a celebration.
We made bread.
Lucy said dough needed hands when words failed.
So the three of us stood in the warm bakery, flour on our clothes, kneading silence into something that could rise.
Later, Jack asked if he could take the broken lock to a museum exhibit on family violence and missing persons.
Lucy said yes.
I said yes.
He said, “It shouldn’t just be mine anymore.”
That was healing.
May you like
Not forgetting.
Letting the story help someone outside the room.
