No one from my side of the family came.
I thought, if we can survive this, nothing can break us.
After graduation, we got married in his parents’ backyard.
Fold-out chairs. Costco cake. My dress off a clearance rack.
No one from my side of the family came.
I kept glancing at the street, half-expecting my parents to show up in a storm of judgment.
We had a baby a couple of years later.
They didn’t.
We said our vows under a fake arch.
“In sickness and in health.”
It felt less like a promise and more like a description of what we were already living.
We had a baby a couple of years later.
Fifteen years of me scrolling past my parents’ numbers and pretending it didn’t hurt.
Our son.
I mailed a birth announcement to my parents’ office, because old habits die hard.
No response.
No card. No call. Nothing.
Fifteen years passed.
But I believed we were strong.
Fifteen Christmases. Fifteen anniversaries. Fifteen years of me scrolling past my parents’ numbers and pretending it didn’t hurt.
Life was hard, but we made it work.
He got his degree online. Got a remote job in IT. He was good at it. Patient. Calm. The guy who could walk someone’s grandma through a password reset without losing his mind.
We fought sometimes. About money. Exhaustion. Whose turn it was to handle which crisis.
I opened the front door and heard voices in the kitchen.
But I believed we were strong.
We’d survived the worst night of our lives.
At least, that’s what I thought.
Then one random afternoon, I came home from work early.
I’d gotten off a few hours ahead of schedule and was planning to surprise him with his favorite takeout.
