“I will be.”
Months later, I sat on the porch of the small house we’d bought together, watching the last of the sunlight bleed into the yard. Inside, Graham’s mother was laughing at something on the television, her color back, her voice strong.
A vase of grocery-store carnations sat on the porch rail beside me. Graham had brought them home that morning, just as he had every Saturday since we were seventeen.
Once, my parents had seen them as proof of everything he couldn’t give me. Now they reminded me of everything that truly mattered.
Graham stepped outside and sat beside me.
“You’ve been quiet all evening.”
“I was just thinking. About family.”
“And?”
I looked at him, at the life we’d built with our own hands.
“I think I finally have one.”
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