The Harringtons never called. They never reached out, not on holidays, not on Lily’s first birthday. They retreated to their mansion on the hill, their reputation in town permanently dented by the truth Ethan exposed. But the beautiful part is, we never needed them to call. We built our own family from the ground up.
Sometimes, when I’m sitting at the kitchen table, watching Ethan expertly rock a now-thriving, chubby-cheeked Lily to sleep while simultaneously highlighting text in his thick accounting book, I think back to Eleanor Harrington. I think about the woman who sneered and whispered that Ethan was “just like his mother.”
I realize now, with a profound sense of peace, that she was absolutely right.
He was just like me. He chose to love when it would have been infinitely easier, and far more acceptable to society, to walk away. He was paralyzed by the terror of the unknown, and he chose to plant his feet and stand his ground anyway.
