“It nearly did.”
“So when you moved here and started cooking and driving the kids around and making friends…”
He smiled slightly.
“You became Mom again.”
A sharp tenderness rose inside me.
“But somewhere along the way,” he said, “I started treating that version of you like she existed for us.”
I said nothing.
“I thought needing you was the same as loving you.”
“That is an important difference.”
“I know.”
“No. You know now.”
He nodded.
“Now.”
I looked at my son.
The boy who used to climb into our bed during thunderstorms.
The man who held my hand at Arthur’s funeral.
The father who worked too much and worried too quietly.
He had hurt me.
And he loved me.
Both could be true.
“I heard something years ago,” I said.
“What?”
“Your father told a friend that marriage was mostly learning to update your information.”
Daniel laughed.
“That sounds like Dad.”
“He said people get into trouble because they keep loving the person their spouse used to be instead of noticing who they are becoming.”
I looked toward the apartment.
“I think families do that too.”
“You changed.”
“Yes.”
“So did we.”
“Yes.”
He took a breath.
