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In the Bread Aisle

We are hand-in-hand in the bread aisle when my boy tugs twice.

I furrow both eyebrows.

“Were you scared?” he whispers.

“Scared?” My forehead forms a mess of lines.

He is more direct. “Were you scared when you got married?”

The question settles on me. In me. And when I look down again, he is reading my face. Waiting.

We stay like that, my back in an ell, my lips near his ears and I assure my boy with remembered emotions that I wasn’t scared.

And he nods.

When we walk again, his hand is holding mine.  And he says protectively,“Because I don’t want you to ever be scared, mommy.”

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