No wedding cake.
No champagne.
Just coffee, warm food, loud conversation, and four people who had never once asked me to reduce myself in exchange for belonging.
That afternoon, I returned to my apartment alone.
Sunlight poured through the living-room window.
The place was tiny compared with the Reed house.
My couch barely fit.
The kitchen had one narrow counter.
The bedroom closet door squeaked.
I loved every inch of it.
Because nobody could tell me where to sit.
Nobody could tell me when to eat.
Nobody could tell me what I owed in exchange for existing there.
I started my new job the following Monday.
My creative director, Naomi Brooks, handed me a campaign brief before lunch.
“Big client,” she said. “Think you can handle it?”
I looked at the folder.
For the last six months of my engagement, I had slowly stopped trusting myself.
Mason corrected everything.
My career choices.
