When I told him I had once wanted to become a teacher but changed my plans because my father became ill, he didn’t interrupt or try to turn the conversation toward himself.
He asked about my father.
He remembered his name.
Two days later, Ryan sent flowers to my office with a handwritten note saying he hoped my father was feeling better.
My father died eleven months later.
Ryan held me through the funeral.
He sat beside me while I sorted through my father’s belongings, and he helped me organize the paperwork I couldn’t bear to read.
When I finally returned to work, Ryan had prepared dinner at my apartment.
He told me I didn’t have to be strong every day.
I believed him.
We married the following year.
For a long time, our life together was ordinary in the best possible way.
We rented a small one-bedroom apartment on the third floor of a brick building, saved for a house, and spent weekends wandering through hardware stores imagining what our future home might look like.
