It passed many months ago; I just never gave it much thought with how busy my life has been. Each day, I hoped he would return. I hoped that all the information, all the proof, was a lie and he was still out there, somewhere. But three and a half years have gone by, and the waiting, hoping, became tiresome a long time ago. It was time to start a new life. Time to build myself up again. Although the first eighteen months after he died were the toughest to get through, I was glad I could smile again. I could laugh. For moments, I felt free. But then, I’d see Aden’s face, and some of that happiness would fade—not because of him, but because my son, Aden, was a spitting image of his father. Sometimes he acted like him—as stubborn as a mule when he wanted to be. I loved him, and I hated that I couldn’t explain to him who his father was. I know, one day, once he gets old enough to figure out his skin is a few shades darker than mine and his hair is raven-like, he’ll ask who his father is.
