Seeing Her Smile Was Enough

The other day I opened Instagram.
And somehow it recommended the profile of
someone I had not seen or talked to in a very long time.

A girl who was once a big part of my past.

I do not really use Instagram like that.
And…it felt a little strange
because I had deleted her phone number years ago.

But… There she was.

Smiling in a small picture on my phone.

And I am not going to lie…
it felt a little bittersweet.

It wasn’t because I wanted her back.
We have long been on different paths.

It was more like… for a moment.
I remembered her.

But I also remembered the person
I was when I loved her.

More than a decade ago…
there was a time when I might have
wanted to look through everything.

To make sure she was okay.

Maybe I would have kept looking…
until I found something that hurt me.
Or something that made me
feel better about the choices I made.

The first time I remember seeing her…
I was that rebellious boy with baggy pants
and oversized shirts in my mid teens.

She was running.

Someone had broken her heart…
and I remember watching
her run outside in pain.

We were two very different human beings then.
Just like we are now.

I did not stop her.

But I do remember…
remembering that I wondered if she was okay.

We would not actually speak until months later.
But I do not remember the details of our first conversation.

And it’s not like it really matters anyways.

Sometimes memory forgets the beginning…
But remembers what something felt like.

She used to write me notes during the week.
Little pieces of whatever was happening in her life.

I kept those notes for years.

She cared about me too.
That is important for me to say.

But somewhere along the way…
I started making her happiness
something I felt responsible for.

I would drive across town.
Bring flowers.
Buy gifts.
Write notes.

And when I went to the University of Oregon,
I went because I genuinely wanted
to continue my education there.

But… I would be lying if I said
being closer to her did not matter too.

Whenever I felt distance. I moved closer.
Whenever I felt uncertain. I tried harder.

It took me years to understand
why that feeling was so familiar to me.

She was not my mother.
They were not the same person.

But loving someone who could feel close…
while still somehow feeling far away…

I knew that feeling.
I had known it since I was a child.

So when I felt it again…

I thought that was what love
was supposed to feel like.

And no matter how much I cared for her…
There were things inside me
she could never fix.

Maybe she was never supposed to.

Then life got heavier.

I went to China. Grandma fell.
And she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.

And I decided… to come home early.
But… I did not return as the same person who left.

There are parts of that time
I am still learning how to explain.

But somewhere inside all of it…
I became a husband.

And eventually… A father.

Years later, I saw her again.
We were both shopping at the same mall
during a busy weekend near Christmas.

She was coming down the escalator
looking at her phone,
and I was walking toward it with my son.

I recognized her.
But I do not know… if she saw me.

Maybe she did.
Maybe she did not.

I moved to the side,
grabbed my son’s hand,
and guided him toward the escalator.

And…we kept going.

Later, I contacted her one final time.

I asked if she wanted the photographs back.
Maybe she thought I was trying to reconnect.

The old me probably would have been.
But not this one.
I sincerely wanted to give them back
before I got rid of them.

They did… But I have sons now.
And I was building a life with their mother.

And I was not going to keep
photographs and years of notes
from another woman…

Then one day try to explain to my children
why I still needed them.

That was also the night
I deleted her number.

And that was it.

My wife did not always receive
the most outwardly romantic version of me.

And…that is something
I have had to think about.

She deserved flowers too.

But she also received something
I had spent much of my life
afraid to give anyone.

The truth.

She knew about the basement.
She knew about some of the things
that happened to me when I was the invisible boy.

Then my sons arrived…

And suddenly… it did not matter
what kind of father I thought I could become.
I had to actually become one.

And… I am still learning how.

There are moments when I hear
parts of my childhood inside my own voice.

And I have to stop.
Breathe.
Choose again.

In a strange way…
my wife reminds me of Grandma.

So when Instagram placed that smile
in front of me…

But…

I do not need to become him again.

The first time I saw her…
I remember wondering if she was okay.

For a moment… I just watched them.

And smiled.