83
LYNNE
It was September, almost spring in New Zealand. I took Kiwi for long walks, talking to him, telling him about his father. He was three months old now, and I couldn’t look at him without thinking of Connor. Our son was a constant reminder of what I’d lost. I wondered what I would do if Connor never returned.
The answer was simple: I couldn’t accept that possibility.
That was when I decided to keep a journal. I would videotape Kiwi’s first steps, his first words. I’d write down my thoughts and memories. I’d document everything so that when Connor came back to us—and I had to believe he would—he would not have missed a moment of his son’s life.
When he comes home. Not if. When.
He’s definitely his father’s son, Connor, I wrote. He looks exactly like you. I look into his tiny fa
