It was the brief, hopeful time in the year following the end of my parent's marriage.
He was not so handsome, but tall and friendly. He worked a nine to five and liked kids, and best of all, he wanted to marry her. Mother dreamt of staying home with her children. She still believed in love.
We three lay spooned in her bed. It was my idea. I didn't want to be left out. She'd worked hard that day, and perhaps she slept, tucked into the curve of his stomach. My bony chest lay flat against the heat of his back. He stroked my slender thigh, his hand large and patient in the sighing night.
My heart pumped in counter-rhythm to his caress. I could not rest, my senses on alert. It seemed to go on forever, his touch.
We never heard from him again. Turns out he was already married.
Mother began to settle for less after that.
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