When someone made fun of my oversized glasses in fourth grade, Matthew shoved the boy into the dirt.
“I don’t care if I get detention,” he muttered afterward. “Nobody gets to make you cry, Ashley.”
That was Matthew.
Protective. Patient. Steady.
Everyone adored him.
Especially me.
“Nobody gets to make you cry, Ashley.”
I wasn’t nearly as fearless.
If a teacher asked for volunteers, I stared at my desk.
If someone complimented me, I assumed they were just being nice.
My father loved me more than anything, but he had a habit of rescuing me before I ever had the chance to struggle.
If I hesitated over a decision, he made it for me.
If I doubted myself, he’d rush in with the answer.
I wasn’t nearly as fearless.
Everybody called it love.
Eventually, I called it proof.
Proof that other people trusted themselves more than they trusted me.
