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When I was all of eighteen, I promised the girl that I loved that I would love, cherish, and honor her.

I did not break my promise.

When I was nineteen, I promised her that I would love the child we were expecting, no matter what happened.

This promise too, I did not break.

I also promised her that I would let her live on in our child's memory; I would let our child read a letter that she had written for every birthday, every childhood accomplishment, every woe.

I broke that promise.

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We sit down on the front steps, and Ava bends over and begins to play with her shoelace. She is waiting for me to speak, but I am silent, watching her in the moonlight.

Without a word, I stand up and go into the house to retrieve the box. Ava is still sitting when I return, and does not move when I sit down beside her once more.

"What's this?" She asks softly, brushing a finger over a corner of the box.

"This…"

I am at a loss for words. Where do I start? I would like to skip through this and fast-forward to the part where Ava looks up at me with joy filled eyes. And yet I know very well that the joy might also bring pain; anger.

"J. E.C," Ava reads softly, "Jamie's initials."

"She would have liked you to call her Mama, I think. Or Mom, even."

Ava looks up, her eyes cool in the blue and white of the moon overhead. "How could I call a woman I never knew 'Mom'?"

"Ava, don't be difficult…"

Her eyes flash and she raises her chin defiantly. She is silent for a moment, then turns her attention back to the box. "What is this?"

"It belonged to your mother. To Jamie." I clear my throat and slide the box into her lap. "She wanted you to have it."

Ava's features soften, and I watch her fingers hungrily descend upon the box. The anger has begun to melt away.

"Why now; tonight?" She whispers; in that soft voice, I hear an apology.

Guilt strums the corners of my heart. I look up at the moon, the stars; anywhere but at Ava.

"There's a letter from me inside. I hope it will explain everything," I say, getting up. A sense of shame overflows through me: I have taken the easy way out; I have let a letter do the talking for me.

I stoop down and kiss Ava's head.

"Goodnight."

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"What are you doing?" I asked as I came into our little bedroom, just recently painted a muted shade of sky-blue. Jamie sat propped up in bed, a pen in hand and a tray overflowing with loose papers placed precariously on her lap.

"I'm writing a letter," she said with a smile, not looking up.

"To?"

"Someone special."

"Does someone special have a name?"

"Perhaps."

I smiled. "Would that someone's special have an 'L' in their first name?"

She looked up. "No." A dreamy look crossed her face, and I bent to move a strand of dark hair from her face. "It's for the baby, Landon."

I must have looked confused, because she patted the spot beside her and reached up to take my hand.

"Landon, I'm writing incase I don't…" She frowned into her hands. "…Incase I am not there for all of the things our parents experienced in raising us." She looked up, her eyes suddenly red.

For a moment, I did not know what to say. My emotions jumped and settled on one that I knew was not right: anger.

"That's morbid," I finally said through clenched teeth.

"It's life, Carter," Jamie retorted, evidently unimpressed with my attitude. "Deal with it. People die."

And suddenly, I felt something black and painful settle in my chest. I kneeled down by the bed and grabbed at her wrists. A thousand thoughts came to mind, none of them eloquent enough for words.

"You're not 'people,' Jamie," I whispered hoarsely, "You're Jamie Elizabeth Carter. You're my wife, my lover…"

"Landon—"

"You're my best friend…"

She buried her face in the nape of my neck and sighed. "I love you Landon… but I can't live knowing that you can't accept things for what they are. I need you to understand me, okay?"

She spoke to me as if I were a child. I crawled up into the bed and settled in beside her. The sun had begun to set, and now played in hues of orange and burnt amber across the foot of the bed.

"I want you to be happy…" I murmured.

She smiled; a thin veil of a smile that did not hide her own fear, her own lack of understanding.

"I'm happy when I'm with you."

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Alone in my room, I turn to face the windows, and look out over the bay. Boats rock gently in the breeze, and the moon has created a silver path from the horizon to the shore. Jamie would have loved a night like this.

A noise makes its way to my ears; through the open window, or perhaps the crack beneath the door? I step closer to the door, and recognize an unmistakable sound that I have previously never heard in my own house:

That of my daughter crying herself to sleep.

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