Julian grinned. “You sure are,” he said. “Stuck with me now.”
I leaned into him, and the old fear—the fear that love was conditional, that it could be revoked—didn’t rise.
Because love like this didn’t demand I sell pieces of myself to earn it.
It just asked me to show up.
Part 9
Two years after the wedding, our son learned to walk.
It happened in the living room on a Tuesday afternoon while Julian was on a work call and I was kneeling on the rug with a toy dinosaur in my hand, making ridiculous roaring noises.
“Noah,” I coaxed, holding my arms out. “Come on, buddy. You can do it.”
Noah wobbled upright, chubby legs trembling, then took three determined steps toward me and collapsed into my arms with a delighted squeal.
I laughed so hard I cried. Julian rushed in from the office, half-panicked.
“What happened?” he demanded, then saw Noah grinning and me sobbing on the rug.
“He walked,” I choked out.
Julian dropped to his knees and pulled both of us into a hug, laughing into Noah’s hair.
In that moment, I thought about my parents—not in longing, not in anger, but like a distant weather system you remember exists somewhere.
Because having a child does something strange: it makes you understand, with brutal clarity, what you deserved when you were small.
Noah didn’t have to earn my love. He didn’t have to provide anything. He didn’t have to sacrifice his future to keep the family stable.
He was loved because he existed.
That was it.
Sometimes, when things were quiet, I wondered what my parents were doing now. Caitlyn still occasionally relayed news, though less often. Clara and Michael had separated, apparently, after one too many fights in the cramped apartment. Michael moved in with a friend. Clara bounced between “fresh starts,” always promising the next plan was the one.
My parents stayed in their small rental. My dad picked up part-time work at a hardware store, the kind of job he used to sneer at when he thought he deserved better. My mom worked evenings at a grocery store deli, slicing meats and telling customers to have a nice day with a politeness she never offered me when she was furious.
Caitlyn told me my mother sometimes asked about me quietly now, like she’d learned that pushing got her nowhere. She asked about my career. About whether I was happy. She asked if I had kids, but she never asked for my address.