I remember the first time I met you. I spent two hours picking out a sweater that said “respectful but not try-hard.” I practiced your name in the mirror. “Mrs. ——.” Not too formal. Not too casual. When I walked in, your son squeezed my hand so hard I lost circulation. That was the only thing keeping me from shaking.
You see me as a guest. A temporary character in your family’s story. But I’m writing my own version too. In mine, I’m not trying to take your son. I’m trying to love him without losing myself. I’m trying to earn a seat at a table that keeps one chair slightly too far back. My Sons GF version
That’s my version. It’s not the enemy of yours. It’s just… mine. I remember the first time I met you
You asked me what I did for work. Then you asked if I “really saw a future” in that field. You laughed and said you were just teasing. I laughed too. I’ve been laughing like that my whole life — the kind where your ribs ache after, but not from joy. ——
But here’s my version.