And so I walked away.
Anna and I married quietly in a backyard filled with string lights and genuine laughter. We moved into a modest rental with stubborn drawers and a lemon tree in the yard. Aaron painted his bedroom green and pressed his hands into the walls, leaving marks we never erased.
One evening, years later, my phone rang. My mother’s name lit up the screen.
“So this is the life you chose,” she said, as if no time had passed.
“It is,” I replied.
“I’m in town,” she continued. “I’d like to see it. Send me your address.”
When I told Anna, she simply smiled.
“Let her come,” she said. “This is who we are.”
And for the first time, I wasn’t afraid of what my mother might see.
