I didn't ask Matthew to return the photograph right away.
He had said he would bring it back at our next meeting, but I told him he could keep it longer if he wanted.
He thanked me.
That was all.
I spent the next few days trying not to wonder what he saw when he looked at it.
I wondered whether he recognized the children's club.
I wondered whether the red bucket meant anything to him.
I wondered whether Robert's face brought back a memory that I had never known about.
Then I reminded myself that wondering was not the same as knowing.
I had spent too many years confusing the two.
The photograph belonged to Matthew's childhood.
It did not belong to my suspicions.
I wanted him to be able to look at it without feeling that he had to discover something for me.
That was harder than it sounds.
I had spent eleven years searching for explanations.
Now that my son was sitting across from me, I had to learn when not to search him for answers.
On the fourth day, Ramirez called.
She asked whether I could come in for another meeting.
I agreed.
I had grown used to those calls, though I still felt my stomach tighten whenever the telephone rang.
Each time, I hoped there would be something definite.
Each time, I reminded myself that I could not control what the investigation would uncover.
When I arrived, Ramirez led me into the familiar room.
The folder was on the table.
I sat down.
She asked whether I had remembered anything else about Robert's behavior after Matthew disappeared.
I thought about it.
I remembered the visits.
The food.
The conversations.
The way Robert had encouraged me to rest.
I remembered how often he had reminded me that the search teams had done everything possible.
None of those things proved that he had concealed anything.
But they had helped me accept the conclusion that the ocean had taken my son.
I told Ramirez that I could no longer separate my memories from the explanations I had attached to them.
She asked me to describe what I meant.
I explained that I remembered Robert standing near the pool.
I remembered that he had not appeared to be searching.
I remembered his account of the disappearance.
But when I tried to recall the exact order of our conversations, I found gaps.
I had repeated his explanation so many times that I could no longer tell which details came from the original conversation and which came from my own attempts to make sense of it.
Ramirez listened.
She told me that I should not force myself to remember details I could not honestly recall.
I agreed.
It was difficult advice to follow.
I wanted every missing piece.
I wanted to know what Robert had seen, what he had done, and why he had been standing where he was when I returned.
But I could not manufacture those answers.
I could only provide what I remembered.
Ramirez asked whether I had spoken with Robert recently.
I told her that we had spoken several times.
I described the conversations.
I explained that he continued to speak about the afternoon as a confusing event in which everyone had tried to help.
He had not given me a new explanation.
He had not answered the questions that troubled me most.
Ramirez wrote that down.
I watched her close the folder.
"Do you think I'll ever know what happened?"
She took a moment before answering.
"I can't promise you an outcome."
I looked at the table.
I had heard versions of that answer before.
Once, it would have made me angry.
Now I understood that a promise would not have helped me.
I thanked her for being honest.
When I left the building, I sat in my car for a long time.
I had wanted the meeting to change something.
Instead, it had reminded me of how much remained unknown.
I drove home and found the kitchen table empty.
I had moved the red bucket to the shelf.
The photograph was still with Matthew.
For the first time, the room looked less like a place where I had stored my grief and more like a place where I lived.
That did not mean I had stopped missing the child in the photograph.
It meant I was beginning to make room for the person who had returned.
The following afternoon, Matthew called.
He asked whether we could meet.
I told him I was available.
We arranged to see each other the next day.
I wanted to ask whether he had looked at the photograph again.
I wanted to ask whether he had remembered anything.
Instead, I asked what time would suit him.
He gave me an hour.
We ended the call.
I wrote the time on a piece of paper and put it beside the telephone.
Then I went back to making dinner.
The ordinary task helped.
I chopped vegetables.
I washed a plate.
I listened to the sound of water running from the tap.
For eleven years, I had believed that the past was the only place where my relationship with Matthew still existed.
Now I had a meeting to prepare for.
A time to remember.
A reason to leave the house the next day.
Those things were small.
They were also real.
The next afternoon, Matthew arrived carrying the envelope.
He placed it on the table between us.
I asked whether he wanted to keep the photograph.
He shook his head.
"I think you should have it."
I accepted the envelope.
I did not ask why he had changed his mind.
We sat down.
For a little while, we talked about ordinary things.
Then Matthew looked at me.
"I don't know how to make up for the time we lost."
I felt the words deeply.
"You don't have to make up for it."
He looked uncertain.
I explained that neither of us could return to the years we had missed.
We could not pretend they had never happened.
We could only decide what to do with the time we had now.
He looked at the table.
I did not know whether he believed me.
But I hoped he would eventually understand that I was not asking him to repair my life.
I was asking for the chance to be part of his.
We stayed together for another hour.
When we separated, I put the photograph away.
I did not look at it again that evening.
I already knew what it showed.
I was beginning to accept that the things it could not show might never be answered by looking harder.
Click here to continue reading: PART 18: I Had Stopped Demanding That Every Memory Explain My Son’s Disappearance, but I Still Needed to Know Why Robert Had Left So Much Unanswered
For Eleven Years, I Believed the Sea Had Taken Everything From Me, Until One Photograph Made Me Question the Man I Trusted
Part 17 of 20
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