She laughed. “Hopefully you feel that way after you’ve read it.”
We took all of the eggs out of their dye and laid them on paper towels. “Is this how you’re supposed to let them dry?” Ashley asked me. “I actually have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t think I’ve dyed Easter eggs in fifteen years.”
“I’m not sure, either, but it seems right?”
Ashley laughed. “Having a kid makes you realize how very little you know about being an adult.”
“I think you’re doing a pretty great job.”
She beamed at me. “Thank you. I know this sounds weird considering our very minor age gap, but I feel like I got a little bit of practice with you and Miles and Denny. Eden a little, too. Not that I’m comparing you to my six-month-old, but … I don’t know. I felt very protective of you guys. I still do sometimes.”
“You have kind of been our mother hen,” I said. “But I think we all appreciate it. Especially in that first year. We were all such a mess.”
And I still am, I added mentally. That was part of why I spent so many Saturday afternoons at Ashley’s house. When my world felt like it was spinning too fast, I knew Ashley would be there to hold me still. She didn’t get as emotional as my own mother. Instead, she was just this calm, nurturing presence that never seemed too shaken.
“Well, speaking of being a mother hen,” she said. “I have to ask. Do you want anything to eat or drink?”
I shook my head. “I’m fine. Thanks.” It was the third time she’d asked me that afternoon.
“You sure? We have lemonade and chocolate milk and sweet tea.”
“I’m okay.”
“And water, of course.”
“Really. I’m fine.”
Ashley shook her head. “Sorry. I can’t help it. My mother always told me that if your guests don’t have a cup in their hands, you’re being a bad hostess.”
“Does this tiny cup of Easter egg dye count?” I asked, pointing at the pink.
“Hmm. For now? Sure. But if you’re here much longer, I’m forcing some chocolate milk on you.”
I left before she could make good on that promise. I wanted to get home and read the letter she’d written. I was eager to see if it would hold the kind of revelations Denny’s had. If it would make me see the shooting or our lives afterward in a new light.
And it definitely did that.
Dear Friend,
Almost every day for the past three years, someone has asked me, “Ashley, how do you cope with the things you’ve seen?” or “Ashley, how do you stay so positive after everything that has happened to you?” I always give the same answer, and I am sure there are people who won’t believe me but …
Forgiveness.
I think most people see me as unlucky. I wasn’t even supposed to be in that hallway whenwalked out of the computer lab with a gun. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and it changed my life forever. It would be so easy to be angry about that, to spend the rest of my life asking, “Why me?” I think that’s what people expect me to do. Or maybe it’s just what people think they would do.
But I’m not angry.
I’m not going to say I’m grateful. That might be taking it a little too far. But I will say that, three years on, I like who I am. I like where my life is and where it’s going. And the truth is, I don’t know what the alternate version of me, the version that wasn’t in that hallway, would look like. She might not need a wheelchair, sure, but she also might not have the beautiful family that I have now. She might not have the faith I do. She might not have found her purpose the way I have.
So I forgive.
I wasn’t in a good place during my senior year of high school. Logan and I had broken up over winter break. He was a year older and had moved to the next county over for a job. We’d been together since my freshman year, and not seeing him every day like I was used to had taken a toll. I was selfish and frustrated and whenever we were together, I found myself picking fights for no reason. Eventually we both got tired of it and broke up two days before Christmas.
On top of that, graduation was approaching, and I had no idea what I wanted to do after. All my friends had plans—college, vocational school, working on their parents’ farm—but I didn’t feel excited about anything. I was leaning toward cosmetology school, but only because nothing else interested me. I felt completely lost, and for the first time ever, I didn’t feel like my faith was guiding me.
I went to church with my parents and sister each Sunday. I was the president of the Fellowship of Christian Students at VCHS. I went to youth group with my friends on Wednesday nights, and I prayed. I prayed so much, but nothing seemed to be changing. It felt like God wasn’t listening to me. And, I have to admit, my desperation turned me into someone who wasn’t a very good Christian.
The way I saw it, I was doing everything right, and God still wasn’t guiding me to what I wanted. Meanwhile, I saw my friends and classmates and even my own family not being as “good” as I was, not being the kind of Christians I thought they ought to be, but that didn’t seem to matter. They seemed happy, and I wasn’t. They seemed to have purpose, and I didn’t. And the only way I could make myself feel better about that was to judge them. To remind them—and myself—that they weren’t as “good” as I was. I pointed out every little sin I could find because it made me feel better about myself. I’m not proud of that.
