He came to our house that year.
He brought a small box for Emma and another for Noah.
He looked nervous.
“Are these okay?” he asked.
Emma smiled.
“They don’t have to be expensive.”
He laughed.
“I know.”
Noah opened his first.
Inside was a small wooden compass.
“For when you don’t know which way to go,” my father said.
Noah held it carefully.
Then Emma opened hers.
A simple silver bracelet.
Engraved on the inside were four words:
You were never forgotten.
Emma looked at me.
I couldn’t stop the tears.
At midnight, we stood outside.
Fireworks exploded over the neighborhood.
Noah shouted.
Emma laughed.
My father stood beside me.
For years, I had thought family was something you inherited.
Now I understood.
Family was also something you chose.
Sometimes the people who share your blood are the ones who teach you how deeply you can be hurt.
