I was 23, working the register at a small bookstore, when he walked in looking for a gift for his sister’s birthday. I recommended a poetry collection, and he bought it.
Then he came back the next day and asked me to coffee.
Adam was calm in a way that felt grounding. He had steady hands, kind eyes, and a caring heart. He’d make my tea exactly the way I liked it and would leave post-its on the mirror that said things like, “You’ve got this,” or “Breathe, beautiful.”
Then I met Adam.
I never had that growing up — someone who saw me, really saw me, and still stayed. We moved in together after a year and married when I was 25.
He made me feel like I finally belonged somewhere.
And for a while, I believed that maybe this was my fresh start. That I’d finally broken free of whatever curse haunted my mother and her choices.
I didn’t just love Adam — I trusted him.
I didn’t just love Adam —
I trusted him.
