No lamp belonged to us and every brick and tile of the city was exorbitantly priced. Yet, Jocelyn had me living in the most upscale high-rise apartment in Hillsther. She filled the apartment with memories belonged to just the two of us. Even the corners and edges were covered with soft bump strips, as she feared I might bump into them.
She always said to me, "Phillip, in my heart, you'll always be a child."
"I want you ...."
"To be the happiest prince in the world."
"My little prince."
Now.
A friend told me, "Which woman can be pure? She has already done everything she could—she doesn’t gamble, engage in prostitution, or have an affair. She devotes herself wholeheartedly to you, Phillip, so stop causing trouble."
I understood.
She was Jocelyn's intermediary, a way for me to back down. If I went along with it, we could pretend nothing had happened, just like before when we had our arguments and move on.
But suddenly, I refused.
I was stubborn, so stubborn that when I saw Alexander's latest social media update—a picture of him with his child on a Ferris wheel, all smiles—with the caption:
[My son told me, "Even if she isn't my biological mom, as long as she loves me, we're family."]