“I wrote to my mom in prison a month ago,” I told the audience. “Just a letter. No judgment. No demands. She never responded. But… I’m proud I sent it. I needed to let that weight go.”
Jude reached across the table and took my hand, grounding me like he always did. “I’m very proud of you.”
“I think,” I continued, “that healing isn’t about erasing the past. It’s about choosing not to let it define your future.”
We paused there. Let the words land.
Then I turned the mic toward Jude. “So, for the skeptics out there still wondering who you are, what would you say?”
Jude smiled, just a little. “I’d say I’m a man who listens. Who shows up. Who doesn’t have all the answers, but knows how to hold space for the questions.”
“And for the believers?”
He looked at me. Really looked. “I’d say… love is the most honest magic there is. And I believe in that. In us.”
I barely held it together. “Me too.”
We signed off a few minutes later, and I closed the laptop with a satisfied click. The red recording light went dark.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I said.
Jude stood and pulled me up into his arms.
“No,” he whispered, kissing the side of my neck. “That was holy.”
And I knew what he meant.
Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t searching for truth in other people’s lies. I wasn’t hunting miracles just to tear them down. I’d stopped running.
I’d found faith—in the quiet, steady kind of love that didn’t need a spotlight. Just two hands. One heart. One home.
“You know I love you, Jude, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Jude pulled his head back, locked eyes with me and smiled. “But why don’t we climb in bed and you can show me again.”
