I tuck the photo of Miller under the band, close to the one of Max, running my thumb over both of the edges. “How old was she here?” “Thirteen maybe?” “She looks happy.” “She was. She was a really happy kid, much in the way yours is.” Monty slides in the gentle reminder that I’m doing okay. It’s his way of reassuring me that Max is all right. That I’m doing a good job, just like he did. But I’m only doing a good job right now because of the girl in the photo next to my son’s. I put my hat back on and leave his office.
This is literally the most simple thing that I've ever read that changed my life
