“Drew.”
“Mom.” He didn’t look at me. “I need a minute.”
“Of course.”
“I just need to think.” He rubbed his face with both hands. His voice was raw. “I’m not mad at you. I want you to know that. I’m not. It’s just… it’s like somebody picked up the ground and moved it.”
“I know.”
“I loved her.”
“I know, baby.”
“I think I still do. That’s the worst part.”
I put my arm around him. He was shaking. I held on to him the way I did when he was nine, standing over that little grave in the backyard in the rain.
“You don’t have to decide anything today,” I said.
“I married her, Mom.”
“You did.”
“An hour ago.”
“I know.”
He laughed. A small, broken, hiccuping laugh. “What do I do?”
I thought about it. I thought about everything I’d learned in thirty-seven years of teaching about what to say to somebody standing at the edge of a hard decision.
“You don’t do anything,” I said. “Not today. Today you eat something. You sleep. Tomorrow you talk to her. Alone. You listen to what she says. And what she doesn’t say. And you decide whether the woman you married is the one who sat at that dinner table on Tuesday. Or the one sitting on those steps right now.”
He nodded slowly.
“And Drew?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t send a single euro anywhere until a lawyer and your accountant have seen every page. Not because you’re angry. Because you’re a businessman.”
He almost smiled. “Yeah. Okay.”
“And Drew?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m proud of you.”
He turned and finally looked at me. His eyes were red. His face was wet.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You asked her the question. In front of everyone. You asked it plainly, and you listened to the answer.” I touched his cheek. “That took more courage than getting married.”
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.