You see me at Thanksgiving, passing the mashed potatoes, laughing at your son’s old baby photos. You think: She’s polite. Quiet, maybe. A little guarded.
That’s my version. It’s not the enemy of yours. It’s just… mine.
I love your son. Not the way you love him — not the “I changed his diapers and drove him to soccer” way. I love him the way a storm loves a coastline. Slowly. Violently. Reshaping him, being reshaped. He tells me things he’s never told anyone. And sometimes, late at night, he says: “My mom wouldn’t understand.” My Sons GF version
I don’t correct him. But I think: maybe she would. Maybe she’s just never been given the chance.
But here’s my version.
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. You see me at Thanksgiving, passing the mashed
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.