On their last night, standing by the Charles River, Chloe gave her verdict. «He’s happy, Ethan. He has a wonderful life. We can’t destroy that.»
«But Mom,» Mia whispered, her voice thick with emotion. «He’s family.»
«Sometimes, honey,» Chloe said, pulling her daughter into a fierce hug, «the greatest act of love is the one that breaks your own heart. Loving him means letting him go.»
Back in Chicago, the silence in their apartment was different. It wasn’t the silence of secrets, but of a shared, quiet peace. The storm had passed, and their family, though scarred, was still standing. A week later, a small package arrived for Mia. Inside was a framed photograph—the old one of her uncle Kevin holding his infant son. On the back, in her mother’s elegant script, was a message:
«So we always remember where we came from, and can choose where we go from here.»