I stared at him, my heart hardening with every word.
“What if I’m never back on my feet, Trevor?”
He mumbled something incoherent about needing air, then bolted from the room, leaving the takeout bag untouched.
I sat there in the sterile silence, staring at the door he didn’t return through. And that was the moment I knew.
It wasn’t love. It never had been.
Dr.
Lucas and I kept crossing paths after that day. At first, it was casual—him checking on me during follow-ups, a shared coffee in the hospital cafeteria. But those moments grew into something I hadn’t felt in years: safety.
One afternoon, as we sat on a park bench near the hospital, he said something that stayed with me forever.
“Emily, love isn’t a test. It’s a choice. And it’s not about someone proving they deserve you—it’s about someone showing they’ll choose you every single day.”
That was the moment I knew Trevor was just a chapter in my story, not the book.
A year after Trevor bolted from the hospital, Lucas and I sent him an invitation—not to our wedding, mind you, but to a psychiatric evaluation.
“I thought it was more fitting,” Lucas said with a wry smile, sliding the envelope into the mailbox.
We married six months later, surrounded by people who genuinely loved us.
Now, three decades and three children later, I sit here cradling my first grandchild. My eldest just became a father, the best gift for our 30th anniversary.
Lucas leans over, brushing a kiss on my cheek. “Still think love’s a test?” he teases softly.
I laugh, holding his hand.
“Only if you’re failing it.”
Source: amomama
