“What happened?”
“I met someone.”
I went silent.
She laughed.
“See? Panic.”
“Who?”
“His name is Ethan.”
“What does he do?”
“He teaches history.”
“Does his mother want your condo?”
Sofia laughed so hard she could barely breathe.
“No.”
“Good start.”
They dated slowly.
Painfully slowly, according to Sofia.
Ethan knew everything.
Not every classified detail.
But enough.
He never pushed.
Never asked about the condo.
Never asked about money.
The first time he met Alexander, my former husband interrogated him for forty-five minutes.
I interrupted when Alexander asked for Ethan’s five-year financial plan.
Sofia threatened to leave.
Daniel whispered to Ethan, “Run while you can.”
Ethan stayed.
Two years after that, he proposed.
Not with a crowd.
Not in a restaurant.
Not at the condo.
In my backyard.
Beside the roses.
The six bushes Sofia had planted with strips of her old wedding dress had grown enormous.
White fabric still clung to one weathered stake.
