Page 125 of The Story Between Us

“Nathaniel.”

He paused.

“God isn’t finished with your story, even if Emma has finished hers.”

His throat tightened. “Yeah. Thanks. I love you.”

A pause, her breath caught. “I love you too, son.”

He hung up. Took the stairs two at a time. His hand was on Emma’s door before he realized he was shaking.

He crossed to the bookshelf. His fingers found the Bible immediately—worn brown leather, gold-edged pages. Their grandmother’s Bible, the one Emma kept on the middle shelf, the one he’d never thought to open.

The ribbon marked a page near the middle.

Psalm 34:18. “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

And tucked against the page, a folded piece of paper.

Emma’s handwriting. The familiar slant, the loops on her y’s and g’s, the little circles she used to dot her i’s.

He sat on her bed, the quilt soft beneath him—purple and blue, their grandmother’s stitches. His hands trembled as he unfolded the letter.

Nate—

If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone and you’re struggling. I know you. I know you’re probably sitting in my room right now, wondering how to go on without me. I know you’re probably blaming yourself for something, or hiding from something, or both.

Stop it.

I need to tell you something I should have said years ago, but I was afraid you’d argue with me, and I was too tired to fight. So I’m writing it down instead, and you’re going to read it, and you’re going to believe it, because I’m dead and you can’t argue with dead people.

You were never the lesser partner.

I know that’s what you thought. I know you saw yourself as the wordsmith, the support staff, the one who polished my ideas into something readable. And that’s garbage, Nate. Complete garbage.

The world was never mine—it was ours. Every kingdom, every character, every twist and turn. You built as much of it as I did. You just couldn’t see it because you were standing too close.

And the ending? That’s not mine to write. It never was.

I gave you the doors, Nate. You’re the one who knows what’s behind them. You always have been. I just asked the questions. You found the answers.

Don’t you dare stop opening them without me.

The story is yours now. It always was.

I love you. I’m proud of you. And wherever I am, I’m probably annoying the angels with plot ideas and waiting to see what you do next.

Write the ending, Nate. The one only you can write.

—Emma

P.S. Mom probably waited too long to give you this. Don’t be mad at her. She’s grieving too. We all grieve badly in this family. Maybe try doing it better than I did.

She knew. She saw him. Three years ago, when she was dying, when she should have been thinking about herself, she’d written this. For him. Permission wrapped in paper and tucked in a Bible, waiting for him to be ready.

Maybe he still wasn’t ready. Still, the words found him. You were never the lesser partner. The story is yours now. It always was.

Huck, then Finn came and settled at his feet. He slid down to the floor, dug his hands into their fur.