You got a haircut for me, walked in on me kissing a boy you downgraded for mixing up your with you’re, for not knowing where Texas is.

I noticed instantly, checked your eyes and eyelashes, focussed on your ears, lips. I didn’t let you finish your sentences. Wouldn’t let you open your mouth.

You made a career change, cooked, moved, met my parents. I pretended you weren’t a teacher, and I, student. I liked every month and haircut, each different hairdresser you tried, enjoyed the surprise of it. Didn’t tire of your tongue.

We don’t know what we’ll tell our children.