That might not sound like much. But after everything I’d been through, those words meant more than he probably realized.
Three months after we met, Robert asked if I wanted to get married.
Not with a speech, not with a fancy ring. We were sitting at my kitchen table eating takeout Chinese food. He set down his fork and said, “You want to build a quiet life together?”
I laughed. “That’s your proposal?”
“Pretty much.”
I thought about it for exactly five seconds. Then I said, “Yes.”
We married two weeks later at the Linn County Courthouse. No white dress, no flowers, just a simple ceremony with the judge. Walter stood beside us, grinning like he’d been waiting years for this moment.
After the judge pronounced us married, Robert squeezed my hand. I remember feeling something strange. Not fireworks, not excitement. Something steadier.
Relief.
For the first time in a long while, I felt chosen for who I was, not for what I might give someone. Just me.
I assumed our life would stay quiet like that. Predictable, peaceful.
But one Tuesday morning about three months later, something happened that changed everything.
I nearly fainted next to the copy machine at work.
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