It felt peaceful.
A few minutes later, my son came out of his room.
He stopped when he saw Mark at the stove. Just for a second. Then he nodded politely, poured himself some juice, and stood by the window to drink it. He didn’t sit down at the table with us.
I told myself it was normal.
He was fifteen. Fifteen-year-old boys rarely greet the morning with enthusiasm. I brushed it off as teenage moodiness.
I’m forty-four. Divorced for years. I work as an accountant and built a stable life for the two of us. Mark is forty-nine, a teacher, divorced too. We met through friends, messaged for months before we dated. He was steady. Predictable. No drinking, no drama.
After eight years of being just “Mom,” I finally felt like a woman again.
At first, Mark came over when my son wasn’t home. Then I decided I had nothing to hide. My son was old enough to understand that I had a life beyond homework and grocery lists. I introduced them. They shook hands. Polite. Calm.
