Why he deserves me

“Who’s the love of my life?” he whispers, snuggling closer, nuzzling my neck.

I arch my eyebrows and glance pointedly at the sleeping toddler on the other side of the bed, her hair tousled and sweaty, her mouth pursed in a little o. He adores her almost past sanity, and we both know it.

“No, she’s the joy of my life,” he says. There’s a pause, while we fill in the words so deeply understood there’s no need to speak them aloud. She’s his joy, I’m his love.

“And she’ll leave me someday,” he says. “For some jackass who doesn’t deserve her.”

I smile, stroke his hair. I hadn’t noticed how much gray there was in it.

“I hate him,” he mutters. He looks like he might bite me, but it wouldn’t be me he was biting. It would be the future.

His face is buried in my hair. “But I love you,” he says. “You are the love of my life.”

I’m not sure if he said it out loud. But I heard it.