She left us all too long ago. Nothing more than a memory lingering on our souls.
It’s strange how much one person can affect so many, even when you fight the knowledge, not wanting to give attention, to feed the fire. It’s strange how much one person can affect your own self, even when it shouldn’t.
My stepdaughter, my husband’s daughter left all that she knew, all that we thought she loved over a year ago. Vanished into thin air to pursue a faith we were too sinful for.
Of age, and too stubborn to sway there was little anyone could do. We lie to ourselves, promising better results had we just said a little more, loved a little deeper, stood up just one more time. I doubt little could have been changed.
She didn’t go alone. She was weak and fresh into postpartum depression (un-diagnosed), and her mom, complete with her own list of troubles, wisked her off into a romance of being perfect with God, and better than this world. Abandoning her new husband, her new child and anyone that was not chosen.
I could diagnose, point fingers, speculate and blame. But that time has passed.
We heard little at first, and now we hear nothing. There’s been small traces of paths, and I do believe that I know exactly where they are. But her blood family wishes for me not to act on what I know, and that I must respect.
I keep writing, keep sharing our story, for reasons I can’t explain. The months of crying and questioning have passed, the urgency has fizzled. Life after all can’t stop moving, and one can’t sit still forever.
I was never close to her, I never became her stepmother. We talked, we shared and we laughed, we were both pregnant at the same time. We had a bond of our own, nothing deep, nothing intimate, just an understanding of two souls who were so different but so the same, forced together into an instant family.
I get why she ran.
So I suppose I keep writing, I keep sharing, because some where inside I know there’s good in this. One day the words will become clear, the story will flow and the ending will finally be made known. And that’s the trouble. Writing a story without an end.
I’ve been asked repeatedly by family members to write on this, beyond my blog that I had long abandoned. But how does one write a story with no ending? I guess that’s my own mystery to find out…