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all those years ago, and he had not known what to say. "I know you have questions," Ruth had said. "I know you re angry. I know you re confused. And I don t expect you to forgive me. I don t expect you to understand. But I need you to know the truth. I need you to know why I left." She had told him everything—the pregnancy, the exile, the running, the fear. She had told him about James, about the love they had shared, about the man who had left her. She had told him about the men who had hunted them, the secret that had destroyed their lives. She had told him about the choice she had made, the choice to leave him in Willow Creek, the choice to give him a chance. She had told him that she had watched him from afar, that she had seen him grow and thrive, that she was proud of the man he had become. She had told him that she loved him, that she had always loved him, that she would always love him. William had listened, his eyes filled with tears. He had been silent for a long time, processing everything she had said. And then he had spoken. "All these years," he had said, his voice soft and trembling. "All these years, I wondered about you. I wondered who you were, why you left, if you ever thought about me. I wondered if you loved me. And now I know." Ruth had felt a surge of hope, a flicker of light in the darkness. "I do love you, William," she had said. "I have always loved you. And I am so sorry for the pain I caused." William had reached out and taken her hand. "You gave me a chance," he had said. "You gave me a home. You gave me a family. You gave me a future. And I am grateful for that." Ruth had felt tears stream down her face. She had been so afraid, so certain that he would reject her, that he would hate her, that he would never forgive her. But he had not. He had accepted her, understood her, forgiven her. "Thank you," she had whispered. "Thank you for giving me a chance." William had smiled, a warm, genuine smile that had lit up his face. "You re my mother," he had said. "You gave me life. You gave me everything. And I am proud to be your son." The photograph that Ruth had carried with her for so many years, the worn and faded picture of a man with kind eyes and a gentle smile, had finally found its home. She had given it to William, had told him about James, had given him the only thing she had ever had of his father. "This is your father," she had said. "He was a good man. A kind man. He loved you very much." William had looked at the photograph, his eyes filled with tears. "I wish I could have known him," he had said. "I wish he could have been part of my life." Ruth had nodded, her heart aching with grief. "I wish that too," she had said. "But I know that he loved you. And I know that he would be proud of you." She had looked at her son, at the man he had become, and she had felt a profound sense of peace. She had carried the burden for so long, had run for so many years, had hidden from the world for so long.