"I know what you saw."She cuts me off, but gently."And I know what it looked like.But you didn't ask me about it.You just assumed."She looks out to the water, contemplating something.“It doesn’t excuse it.But… I get it.”
She shouldn’t.She shouldn’t understand me this well.
Then she says it.Calm and steady, like she practiced it on the walk over.
“I don’t need you, Nate.”
It hits like a blunt blow to the ribs.Not sharp enough to drop me, just enough to make it hard to breathe.But she steps closer—close enough for warmth to reach me.
“I want you.”Her voice is firmer now, but low.
“I want you on purpose,” she says.
I close my eyes just for a second because it feels too good.She strokes my hair out of my face, and I swear I feel it everywhere.
My throat feels tight, like I'm trying to swallow around broken glass."Len?—"
"What I’m trying to say is, I love you by choice, Nate," she interrupts, and the words knock the air out of my lungs."Not by necessity.I love you because I wake up every morning and decide to love you.Because even when you're being an ass, even when you're scared, even when you're convinced I'm going to leave—I.Still.Choose.You."
She touches my face, her palm warm against my cheek."I choose you, Nate.Every single day."
"Say it again," I whisper, my voice barely audible.
“I—”
Before she can answer, I'm kissing her—desperate and hungry and like she's the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth.When we break apart, both of us breathing hard, her forehead pressed against mine, I can feel something fundamental shift in my chest.
Like puzzle pieces clicking into place after years of trying to force the wrong shapes together.
"I've never not been yours," I say simply, the words carrying the weight of every fear I've ever had about not being enough, about being too broken to deserve this kind of love.
And for once, it doesn’t feel like losing.
The drivewith Mom should’ve been easy—one of those peaceful mornings we’ve been trying to reclaim.Pick up the last of the wedding decorations, grab a coffee, maybe talk about nothing in a way that feels like something.
Lately, the distance between who we were and who we’re trying to be has been shrinking, and for the first time in a long time, it felt like maybe we were finding our way back to each other.
By the time we’re standing in the farmer’s market, sun slipping through the awnings and Mom weighing apricots like they’re delicate little decisions, I almost let myself believe it.
For a minute, I’m just holding a paper bag and pretending this—this small, domestic calm—is our normal.
“So, how are you doing Nate?Really doing, since you’ve been back?”
There’s a carefulness to her tone and I can feel her watching me from the side, waiting for some unpredictable reaction.Waiting for me to be, what?Fragile?Explosive?
“You don’t have to tiptoe around me,” I say, tossing an apricot between my palms.“I’m not Scott.”
Her face flickers—confusion first, then hurt, like I’ve hit a bruise I didn’t see.
“That’s not what I’m doing.I just, I don’t want to pry and make things worse.”
She stops, breathes, tries again.
“I don’t even know how to be a mother anymore.”
The words land too hard because I remember when she did.When she was bright and loud and warm.When Scott hadn’t hollowed her out piece by piece.
I still see her sometimes—the old version of her—in flashes, like sunlight reflecting off a broken mirror.
