They’re six and nine,
old enough to notice the tremor in my voice,
young enough to still reach for my hand.
I can count the moments I missed
like empty bottles on a shelf
quiet, dusty reminders of nights
that could have been stories instead.
But they still laugh.
They still run to me
when the world feels too big.
And in their eyes,
I still see something I thought I’d broken
trust, fragile but alive.
I can’t rewrite the nights I lost,
but I can choose the mornings.
Breakfasts without shame.
Walks without the hangover ghost.
Small things,
but maybe small things
are where forgiveness begins.
The fire’s still there,
but I will try to keep it in my chest,
to warm, not burn.
And when they laugh,
it’s not an echo anymore.
It’s home.
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