My mom is fifty-three, and a few months ago she casually told me she was dating someone named Ethan. The moment she said his name, my stomach dropped.
Not because it was a common name. Because I knew exactly who Ethan was.
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He wasn’t a stranger or some random guy she’d met online. Ethan used to live down the street when I was a kid. Back then, he was the kind of boy every younger kid looked up to—funny, kind, always helping people carry groceries or fix bikes. When I was seven, he felt impossibly grown-up and perfect. I followed him around like a puppy and once told my mom, completely serious, that I was going to marry him someday.
