“Mommy, my friend told me this – is it true? Is this a law, that you have to get married?”

“No, buddy. That’s not a law. See? I’m not married.”

“Yes, you were.”

“I was, but I’m not now.”

He thinks of this, spinning slowly in my desk chair. He stops and looks down at the tile floor in our kitchen.

“Mommy, when you get married, you have to stay married.”

“I plan to, sugar.”

“It’s forever, mommy.”

“It is. You’re right.”

He looks up at me. Intently. “So, you have to choose carefully, mommy. Very carefully.”

“I will, buddy. I agree with you.”

“Like, you can’t just get up on a stage and ask for someone to marry you.”

I don’t smile; he is very serious. Imploring me.

“I promise I won’t do that, tuck.”

“Choose carefully, mommy. Very, very carefully. Promise?”

“Promise.”

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