My mom is fifty-three, and a few months ago she casually told me she was dating someone named Ethan. The moment she said his name, my stomach dropped.
Not because it was a common name. Because I knew exactly who Ethan was.
He wasn’t a stranger or some random guy she’d met online. Ethan used to live down the street when I was a kid. Back then, he was the kind of boy every younger kid looked up to—funny, kind, always helping people carry groceries or fix bikes. When I was seven, he felt impossibly grown-up and perfect. I followed him around like a puppy and once told my mom, completely serious, that I was going to marry him someday.
She’d laughed then. I remembered that clearly.
So when she said, “I’ve been seeing someone… you remember Ethan, right?” I actually laughed, thinking she was joking. There was no way she would do that. Not after knowing what he meant to me as a child. Not after hearing me confess my little kid feelings so earnestly.
But she wasn’t joking.
She smiled and said, “Isn’t it funny? You used to have such a crush on him.”
Funny. That was the word she chose.
What happened next changed everything…
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