Anna and I married a few months later. String lights, folding chairs, laughter — the kind that comes from people who don’t pretend.
We moved into a small rental with sticky drawers and a lemon tree in the backyard. Aaron painted his room green, leaving handprints on the wall.
Three months in, at the grocery store, Aaron looked up at me. “Can we get the marshmallow kind, Dad?”
He didn’t realize what he’d said. But I did. That night, I cried into clean laundry. Grief and joy lived in the same room.
Life was quiet. Anna worked nights. I handled school pickups, lunches, dinners. Saturdays were cartoons, living room dances in socks, mismatched mugs from yard sales.
My mother never called. Until last week.
“So this is really the life you chose, Jonathan.”
“It is, Mom.”
“I’m back in town. I’ll stop by tomorrow. Send me the address. I’d like to see what you gave everything up for.”
Anna didn’t flinch. “You’re thinking of deep-cleaning the kitchen, aren’t you?”
