I met Laura when we were nineteen years old. She was the kind of person who could walk into the middle of a miserable week and make everything feel lighter. Not fixed exactly, but definitely more manageable. Whenever she laughed, rolled her eyes, or stole a few fries off my plate, the heavy weight of the day would instantly lift. I loved her for years, but I kept my feelings a secret, buried deep down. By the time I fully understood just how real my feelings were, Laura had Jimmy.
Life wrote a different story for her. She was raising a little boy, dealing with too many bills, and carrying an exhaustion that changed her posture. I stayed in her orbit, right where she let me stay. I was there on the night Jimmy was born, sitting in a stiff hospital chair, buying her the coffee she always forgot to drink. I was there when he decided crayons were food at age two, and when he split his lip on the coffee table at age three. Laura called me that night, crying so hard she could barely breathe. I told her I was outside, grabbed my keys, and drove over immediately.
Laura shouldered the weight of the world, and I just carried whatever pieces I could reach. Sometimes, long after Jimmy had drifted off to sleep, she would sit on the kitchen counter with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, whispering that everyone else seemed to have received a manual for adulthood. I should have told her the truth then. I should have told her that I loved both of them and wanted to be more than just the guy who showed up. But I remained silent.
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