Later, Anna said quietly, “She doesn’t like me.”
“She doesn’t know you.”
“She doesn’t want to.”
Two years passed.
She called me to meet her at a piano showroom—one she’d taken me to as a child, insisting perfection could be trained if you listened closely enough to your mistakes.
I told her I had proposed.
She didn’t react at first.
“If you marry her,” she said finally, “don’t expect anything from me again. That’s the life you’re choosing.”
I waited for regret. For hesitation.
There was none.
So I chose.
Anna and I married under string lights, surrounded by folding chairs and laughter that didn’t try to impress anyone. We rented a small house with stubborn drawers and a lemon tree in the yard. Aaron painted his bedroom green and left handprints on the wall. I never removed them.
