“Probably not,” she said. “But I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for me.”
Now Hannah’s back at the bookstore part-time.
She’s starting community college next semester.
She still limps.
She still has bad days.
Mike is still sober.
He and his wife Denise bring Hannah snacks at therapy sometimes.
Every year, on the anniversary of the crash, at exactly three p.m., the three of us meet at the little coffee shop down the street from the hospital.
We don’t do speeches.
We just sit.
Drink coffee.
Talk about classes. About his granddaughter Lily. About nothing.
It’s not forgiveness.
It’s not forgetting.
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