“You’re terrible.”
“You’re welcome.”
At the front door, I stopped.
For years, I had been the person who stayed.
Leaving, even for three hours, felt strange.
Ethan saw it.
“I’ll be fine.”
“I know.”
“Grandpa is coming over.”
“I know.”
“We have dinner.”
“I know.”
“There is no reason for you to remain here.”
“I know.”
He smiled.
“You’re repeating yourself.”
I laughed.
Then I walked outside.
The winter air was cold enough to sting my cheeks.
I sat in the car.
Put both hands on the steering wheel.
And cried.
Not from sadness.
Not exactly from happiness either.
Some emotions do not fit inside one word.
I cried for the twenty-two-year-old woman who had placed an acceptance letter in a drawer.
I cried for the baby who had needed her.
I cried for all the years I had believed one choice had permanently canceled another.
