The pianos were lined up like prize horses, each one more polished than the last.
“So, Jonathan,” she said, running her fingers along the lid of a grand piano, “is this going somewhere, or are we just wasting time?”
I didn’t hesitate. “I asked Anna to marry me.”
“Is this going somewhere, or are we just wasting time?”
My mother’s hand froze in midair before falling to her side.
“I see.”
“She said yes, of course.”
“Well, then, let me be very clear about something. If you marry her, don’t ever ask me for anything again. You’re choosing that life, Jonathan.”
“I see.”
I waited for something else: a breath, a tremble, or something that suggested doubt. But her face remained unreadable.
She just let me go. And so, I left.
Anna and I were married a few months later. There were string lights, folding chairs, and the kind of laughter that comes from people who know how to live without pretending.
I waited for something else.
***
We moved into a small rental with sticky drawers and a lemon tree in the backyard. Aaron painted his room green and left handprints on the wall.
Three months in, while picking cereal at the grocery store, Aaron looked up at me and smiled.
“Can we get the marshmallow kind, Dad?”
