His face changed.
“Too?”
I looked down at the engagement ring sitting on the table.
“I don’t know what I feel anymore.”
He stepped closer.
“Can we fix this?”
I thought about my mother.
About the hospice room.
About the little photo frame.
About all the nights I had believed Ethan when he said,
“I’ve got you.”
Then I remembered the phone call.
“Let’s not make it a big deal.”
I looked at him.
“You know what the worst part is?”
He said nothing.
“I could have forgiven the affair.”
His eyes widened.
“Maybe.”
I took a breath.
“But I don’t know if I can forgive how easily you lied while my mother was dying.”
Tears filled his eyes.
“I was scared.”
“So was I.”
“I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“Neither did I.”
He looked at the ring.
“Does this mean we’re over?”
I picked it up.
For eight months, I had worn that ring every day.
It represented the future I thought I was going to have.
But sometimes a future can end before the relationship officially does.
I placed the ring in his hand.
“I need to grieve my mother.”
He nodded.
“And I need to grieve the person I thought you were.”
He closed his fingers around the ring.
“I understand.”
This time, I believed him.
Not because I trusted him.
But because, finally, there was nothing left for him to hide.
Months passed.
I went through grief counseling.
I learned how to wake up without immediately reaching for my phone to check on my mother.
I learned that grief doesn’t disappear.
It simply becomes quieter.
Ethan and I didn’t get back together.
Maybe someday we would.
Maybe we wouldn’t.
I stopped trying to predict the future.
One evening, I found the little digital photo frame in a box.
I almost threw it away.
Instead, I plugged it in.
The first picture that appeared was my mother smiling in the hospice room.
She looked tired.