Nineteen years may have belonged to him, but the last three have belonged to me.
To therapy sessions and grocery lists.
To arguments about paint colors.
To quiet mornings and breakfasts in bed.
To a diamond ring and a name I chose to take.
I was twenty-two now.
Young enough that the future feels infinite.
Old enough to understand that freedom isn’t loud. It isn’t dramatic.
It’s coming home to two orange cats weaving around your ankles.
It’s kicking off shoes at the door.
It’s your husband’s hand settling at your lower back as he passes you in the kitchen.
It’s not flinching when someone raises their voice.
It’s knowing that when someone saysI love you, there are no conditions attached.
Daddy pulled into our driveway and turned off the engine.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
“You okay?” he asked.
I reached across the console and laced my fingers through his, lifting our joined hands just slightly so the rings caught the light.
“Yeah. I’m more than okay,” I said, squeezing his hand. “Quiet time or Dark Daddy time?”
He grinned, his pupils expanding. “I could go for either.”
