Noah and I have been married four years now. He still runs his practice on Wexler Street. I still catch strangers staring sometimes when we’re out together, and some days it still stings in a way I doubt will ever fully stop.
But I don’t carry a single thread of pity for the man I married, and he knows that now the way he should have known it from the very beginning — not because I told him so on our wedding day, but because I’d already proven it, in ink, six years before either of us ever said it out loud.
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I didn’t marry Noah to honor a promise two six-year-olds made on a swing set.
I married him because somewhere between that swing set and a cedar box full of folded pages, he’d already become the only person I ever really wanted to keep my promises to.
