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.”