I was sitting at the vanity in our room when I heard Dylan come in behind me.

Over the six months we’d lived together, the luxurious master suite had somehow morphed into a couple’s space. One day I’d come home to find that a small bookshelf containing obscure architecture volumes had been replaced by an elegant vanity and bench, complete with an oval mirror that tilted. Another day, I’d decided to frame and hang a photograph of us that we’d taken at Humboldt, out in the wooded area on a winter day—scarves thick around our necks. I’d added some throw pillows to the couch in the sitting area, which, if Dylan noticed, and I was pretty sure he had, he didn’t say anything. My side of the bed had become populated with magazines and books I was halfway through—a habit Dylan was barely tolerating. His side of the bed never had more than a glass of water, his phone, and a single book.

But that vanity was my favorite. On the nights we went out it made me feel like I had a place to move from morning into day, to recover from whatever shenanigans Dylan had roped my body into and get ready for the day. A place to ease from day into night, to leave behind whatever had happened at work, whatever monstrous thing had been said about me on Twitter or in the Daily Mail or Evening Standard, put on a pretty dress, and let it fall away. At that moment, I had changed into a caramel-colored pleated leather skirt and a thin denim button-down, sleeves rolled up, and was applying mascara when Dylan’s suited frame filled the mirror behind me.

“What are you thinking about?” Dylan’s lyrical deep accented voice filled the air behind me, and I was pretty sure I sat a little straighter, trying to accommodate the tiny zings and zaps of arousal that darted around my body whenever he was present. His hands rested on my shoulders, adding warmth to the mix and reminding me of his strength.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I said, looking up at him in the reflection.

He leaned over and slid his palms down the front of my shirt and into my bra.

“If it’s about our phone call this afternoon, then me too.” My nipples pebbled at his touch, but I rolled my eyes for good measure, even if I was involuntarily leaning into his touch. “I like this ensemble. Who knew leather and denim could be so sexy?”

“Um, Bruce Springsteen and every music video from the eighties?” I said, looking up at him. He laughed, withdrew his hands, and sat next to me on the small bench, facing the room while I faced the mirror. He reached over and brushed my hair behind my ear and swept my bangs aside. They weren’t really long enough to be covering my eyes, but he still did that occasionally, like he’d be able to see me more clearly.

“I gave Hannah my notice,” I said, looking right at him. His eyes got bigger, filling with awe and concern at the same time.

“Lydia,” he started, shaking his head. I knew that his biggest fear was that I would give things up, making too many sacrifices to accommodate my life with him. I could see that fear written all over him.

I put my hand on his thigh. “Dylan, it’s what I want. After we got off the phone today I realized how sad I was that I can’t go with you on this trip this summer. I want to be with you. I don’t resent you going—I resent not being able to go with you. It’s not fair to Hannah to prolong it, and it’s not realistic to keep working a nine-to-five job, when we both know there will be times I need to leave work early, extended trips we’ll need to take. But even more than that, I think I’ve learned what I can learn from Hannah. I’m ready to move on to what’s next for me. I told her I’d stay on until the week before our wedding. I’ll get my replacement up to speed. I’ll make sure everything is ready to move forward with the Manhattan shop. Two months is plenty of time to do that. Then I’ll move on.”

“What will you do next?” he asked, a little of the concern falling away.

“Well, I don’t know yet, but I’m going to figure it out. I’m going to explore my options. I found this woman who does technology consulting for the fashion industry, and I’m going to take her out for dinner in a couple of weeks, learn about her job. And I’m going to schedule other informational interviews. Fiona even sounds interested in coming aboard.”

“Really?” Dylan asked, his eyebrows raised.

“Really. And if I worked for myself, there would be nothing standing in the way of me being with you, travelling with you, doing what we want and need in our life.”

“And it’s what you want?” He took my face in in his hands, trying to suss out any hesitation in my eyes. I nodded, and he kissed me on the lips, smooth, firm, and slow. “Thank you, baby.”

“No ‘thanks,’ right? We’re a team.”

Dylan pulled me against him, running his hands up and down my back, and then we both heard the muffled animated sounds of Emily speaking sternly into the phone a floor beneath us. “My sister’s a beast,” he said, smiling.

I laughed into his shoulder. “Isn’t she something? I don’t think this wedding will require too much from us, other than to show up on the day. She’s a marvel.”

“She is,” he said, pulling back, and he got a look on his face like he was getting an idea. “She’s also probably waiting for us.”

The next morning I was still reeling from all of the wedding plans that Emily had laid before our feet. Reeling and grateful that I hadn’t had to do them myself. I sat on the bedroom floor in front of three rather large boxes we’d dragged back from the New York apartment, things I thought I might want for our London home. Dylan had gone to the office—he was trying to sort something out with Hale Shipping so he could free up time to work on a new architecture project he wanted to take on.

I removed the Bubble Wrap from framed photos and put them to the side, thinking that maybe I could get some of Dylan’s family photos too and hang them together somewhere. I unpacked a small guitar my father had bought me when I was a child and strummed it just enough to realize how little I remembered about playing and how out of tune it was. Then I dug into a pile of loose photos and papers. I’d been sorting things into “keep” and “discard” piles when I came across a yellowed oversaturated photograph that stopped me in my tracks. I stood from the floor and went to sit at the vanity where the light was better.

My father was leaning against a small blue car on a cloudy day. It was London—I could tell from the British license plates visible next to his legs. He had a mustache, which made me laugh, and he looked so young and healthy. And there, perched on his hip, was me. I was an infant—I couldn’t have been much more than six months old, and I was wearing a onesie with little leather buckled shoes and nothing else, and we were both smiling broadly, laughing. The light in his eyes was magnetic, warm. Our eyes were fixed on each other, and you could see how much he loved me—it radiated from the old photograph. I turned it over, and in handwriting I didn’t recognize, there was a note.

Holy shit. It was from my mother. I had no idea if this was the last note he’d gotten from her or if there’d ever been any other communication. I don’t know what happened to her after she gave this to him. I’d never known. I stared at that photo for what could have been hours, and as I sat there, I realized I didn’t need to know. Not anymore. She was right. My mother was right: I was like my dad. Full of love. And I wasn’t like her. I wouldn’t leave.

I had been so lucky to have my dad, to be raised by him, loved by him. The man in that photo didn’t choose to love me—it was a force, part of who he was. Part of who I was. I knew that now, because I felt it with Dylan, felt what feeling love for another person made possible. What it made impossible. Taking one look at that photo made me realized I had nothing to fear.

Not today, but one day, I’d convince Dylan that he had that in him too, because he did. There was nothing to be afraid of when it came to making a family with him, because we already were a family.

I wiped the tears that had fallen down my cheeks and into my lap. I tucked the photo into the frame of the vanity mirror and silently thanked my mother—something I never thought I’d do—for that note. She never could have known that her message was exactly the one I needed to hear.