I wasn’t losing him to the millions of people cheering his name.

I was expanding to include them.

I looked at the tapestry again and smiled, tears streaming down my face.

Not hot tears of bitterness, but cool tears of release.

Okay, Carlo, I thought, projecting the words toward the giant image.

You win.

You hacked the system.

You are everyone’s brother now.

The weeks following the canonization were a whirlwind of interviews, handshakes, and flashes.

But eventually, the tide receded.

The world turned its attention to new headlines, and I was allowed to return to a CC.

It was a Tuesday in November when I finally found myself alone in the house.

The silence was different now.

It wasn’t the heavy pressurized silence of the nights when I used to prosecute God.

It was a light, airy silence filled with the dust moes of a late autumn afternoon.

I walked into the kitchen.

It was 3 p.

m.

Not 3 young.

But the light hit the table in a way that reminded me of that night.

I made a cup of tea and sat in my chair.

I looked at the empty chair across from me.

For a moment, I allowed myself the luxury of imagination.

I pictured him sitting there, 33 years old, perhaps with a receding hairline, perhaps tired from a job in it, perhaps worrying about a mortgage.

I played the whatif game one last time.

But the image wouldn’t hold.

It dissolved into the reality of who he actually was.

A force of nature, a streak of light that had burned too bright to stay contained in a long life.

I realized I didn’t want the alternate timeline anymore.

I didn’t want the version of history where I kept him for myself, but the world lost a saint.

The trade-off was agonizing, yes, but it was also magnificent.

I took a sip of tea.

The liquid was warm, grounding.

My phone buzzed on the table.

It was a message from a woman in Brazil, a stranger.

Senora Antonia, it read, “My son has leukemia.

I was angry at God for months.

Then I heard your story about the boot camp of forgiveness.

Today I forgave the doctors.

I feel like I can breathe again.

Thank you.

” I stared at the screen, the ripple effect.

The code Carlo had written was still executing, running on the hardware of human hearts.

thousands of miles away.

I set the phone down and looked out the window toward the Basilica of St.

Francis, where my son’s body lay in its glass tomb, wearing his jeans and Nikes, waiting for the resurrection.

“You’re still working, aren’t you?” I said aloud to the empty room.

I felt no ghostly touch, no smell of ozone, just the warmth of the sun on my hands, and the steady rhythm of my own heart.

“Good,” I whispered.

“Keep working.

I’ll handle things down here.

” I stood up, rinsed my cup in the sink, and dried my hands.

I had a meeting with a group of pilgrims at 4:00, and I needed to change.

There was work to be done, comfort to be given, and joy to be shared.

I was Antonia Salzano, the mother of a saint.

And for the first time in 18 years, I was entirely beautifully free.

I walked out of the kitchen and didn’t look back at the empty chair.

I didn’t need to.

I carried him with me.

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