“Art.”

She rolled her eyes and ignored him for the rest of the visit. When the bill came, she paid only for herself.

In the car, Anna said quietly, “She doesn’t like me.”

“She doesn’t know you,” I replied.

“She doesn’t want to.”

Two years later, I told my mother I’d proposed.

“If you marry her,” she said flatly, “don’t ever ask me for anything again. You’re choosing that life.”

I waited for doubt. It never came.

So I left.

Anna and I married simply—string lights, folding chairs, honest laughter. We moved into a small rental with sticky drawers and a lemon tree. Aaron painted his room green and left handprints on the wall.

One day at the grocery store, he looked up and asked, “Can we get the marshmallow cereal, Dad?”

He didn’t realize what he’d said. I did.

That night, I cried—not from loss, but because joy and grief finally made room for each other.

We built a quiet life. School runs. Night shifts. Cartoons on Saturdays. Mismatched mugs. Socks sliding across the living room floor.

My mother never called.

Then one evening, she did.

“So this is the life you chose.”

“It is.”

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