My Sons Gf: Version

You see me as a guest. A temporary character in your family’s story. But I’m writing my own version too. In mine, I’m not trying to take your son. I’m trying to love him without losing myself. I’m trying to earn a seat at a table that keeps one chair slightly too far back.

You see me at Thanksgiving, passing the mashed potatoes, laughing at your son’s old baby photos. You think: She’s polite. Quiet, maybe. A little guarded. My Sons GF version

So next time you look at me across the dinner table, wondering if I’m “the one” — know this: I’m wondering the same thing. About you. About whether this family has room for someone who laughs a little too loud at her own jokes, who cries during car commercials, who loves your son in a language you haven’t learned yet. You see me as a guest