“No,” I said.
He frowned.
“I loved you when I was twenty-two,” I told him. “But I didn’t spend fifteen years secretly wishing I’d chosen you.”
“I know.”
“I loved Michael. What he did was wrong, but my marriage, my children, and my love for him were real.”
“I would never tell you otherwise.”
“And he doesn’t get to hand me back to you like property because he felt guilty.”
Ethan nodded.
“You’re right.”
“He made our choice once when we were young. Then he tried to make it again before he died.”
“So what do you want?”
I looked at my first love, my husband’s best friend, my children’s godfather—and somehow my husband.
“I want time.”
“You have it.”
“I’m not pretending we’re newlyweds.”
“Okay.”
“You take the guest room. You keep running the company—but you teach me. Everything Michael assumed I couldn’t handle.”
Ethan agreed.
Months later, I attended meetings and learned the projections I’d once mocked.
One Saturday, Ethan took a laundry basket from my arms.
“I had it.”
“I know.”
This time, I let him.
Then I said, “Dinner tonight?”
“With the kids?”
“No.”
He smiled.
“I’d like that.”
Michael had made our choice twice—once when we were young and again before he died.
There wouldn’t be a third time.
Whatever Ethan and I became next, the choice would finally be ours.
