I put a finger to his lips and shook my head.
“It’s fine,” I said softly. “We have to crawl before we walk. It’s cheap enough to where we can both afford it with our work-study checks and my tutoring. I want us to do this on our own. No parents.”
He blinked at me, listening to my need for independence, my stubborn heart, and vision for us. Then he kissed me again, choosing the peaceful route with me.
“Okay,” he said. “No parents. Just us. We got this.”
He kissed me again, but his eyes changed. His concerned eyes turned into hunger, and he started kissing and sucking my neck.
I burst out laughing. “Again? You gon’ get tired of getting it so much!”
He shook his head, grabbing a handful of my ass.
“Never,” he said. “I don’t care how old I am or how much I get it. I’ll never get tired of making love with you.”
I woke before the sun fully shined into the room. The dream of our past lingered in my mind like a warm hand on my spine. I loved to play back memories of us younger, softer, and impossibly close. Back when love didn’t need translating. Back when affection was instinct and not effort. I could still feel his lips on my neck and hands all over me. It pulled at me in a way that felt bittersweet now.
I rolled over slowly, reaching for him in hopes that we could start our morning making a mess with our bodies. But his side of the bed was smooth and empty. My hand landed where his chest should’ve been, my palm brushing cold fabric instead of warm skin. Then I saw a folded piece of paper resting on his pillow.
Ran to the gym with my trainer. Didn’t want to wake you. Love you.
I closed my eyes, the disappointment was heavier than annoyance ever could be. He always thought consideration looked like silence and letting me sleep. Consideration to him was handling the world so I wouldn’t have to lift a finger. And in the beginning, maybe that was romantic. Maybe it was attentive. But somewhere along the years, the attentiveness turned toward towers of work that I could admire but not compete with.
I pulled the comforter over my head and let out a muffled scream into the pillow beneath me. A moment of release swallowed by feathers and cotton.
I was frustrated, but I didn’t feel like crying. I was past crying over patterns that had become predictable. What hurt more was how unexpected the emptiness still felt, even when I should’ve been used to it by now.
I laid there, staring into the ceiling, letting the emotion wash over me. I felt like a woman missing a man who was still alive, still hers, still loving her in the only way he understood how.
But understanding wasn’t the same as being understood.
I pulled into the parking lot of the firm a little after 8 a.m. The building was beautiful and was the kind of place people assumed came with a corner office. It did, but just not the way I once imagined for myself.
When I stepped inside, the receptionist looked up so fast like she’d seen a ghost.
“Mrs. Givelle? You’re in today?”
I nodded, smiling. “Yeah. I know it wasn’t on the schedule.”
She clicked around on her computer scanning her calendar. “I just checked… you don’t have any meetings or clients today.”
“I know,” I said softly. “I just needed to get out of the house.”
She was relieved. “Well… okay. Do you need anything before you head back?”
I shook my head. “Is my dad in today?”
“No, ma’am. He’s in court today.”
I exhaled, nodding. “Okay. I’ll be in my office.”
The hallway was quiet as I walked toward the back. My heels tapped against the marble floors. When I opened my office door, I flipped the light switch, and the room came to life.
It was beautiful, elegant, and thoughtfully designed. But it wasn’t the dream.
I ended up working for my dad’s firm when I first started practicing out of convenience, but also out of understanding. Over the years, motherhood and wife life became my priority, and nobody understood that more than a father who’d spent his whole life trying to make sure his daughter was happy, not just successful. My dad never pressured me into more hours than I could give or made me choose between the firm and my family. He wanted to make sure I had room to breathe, room to mother, room to love, and room to choose a life that didn’t feel divided. And more than anything, he wanted to make sure I was choosing a life that made me feel supported, not stretched thin. If happiness had a job title in our family, my dad wore it proudly. He wore it for me first, like any parent should.
My dream had always been to one day open my own firm, maybe even specialize in something outside of real estate. But life has a funny way of connecting the dots for you long before you realize you’re tracing a line.
