She sympathetically explained how he was at wit's end. All he wanted
was me to be clean, safe and happy. I knew that. Then she told me
something I didn't know.
“Do you know why I named him Christian?” she asked.
“You wanted him to be a Christian?”
“No,” she smiled, “but I did. I named him after his
grandparents' son.”
“Oh right, I knew that.”
“But did you know why I named my Christian after their Christian?”
I shrugged. “Respect?”
“I loved him.”
“Their Christian? I thought he died before you met.”
“He did,” she confirmed. “I met him through his parents. I saw
his pictures, watched his home movies, heard the stories of his life,
read his journals and letters. I fell in love with him without ever
meeting him. It sounds crazy, I know. I fell in love with a dead
person. I've only ever told Christian and his grandparents. I suppose
there was no one else to tell really.”
What was I supposed to say to that? I
was drawing a blank.
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