Three Times

Morning, to my mother on the phone:

I love you.

The words were routine as coffee.

She didn't even pause.

Just said it back the same way.

We hung up.

Night, in bed, my partner asleep:

I love you.

Automatic. The way you say goodnight.

The way you close a door.

I meant it, but it was muscle memory.

A reflex. A habit that became indistinguishable from care.

Then the airport. My friend leaving.

I said: I love you.

And my voice cracked.

And my hands shook.

And I meant every single syllable

like I was pulling it from somewhere

that actually hurt.

Now I'm sitting in the car.

Hands on the wheel.

Engine still running.

And I can't unhear the difference.

The first one was obligation.

The second one was ease.

The third one was actual.

How many times have I said the first two?

How many times have I not said the third?

My phone buzzes. It's my mother.

My phone buzzes. It's my partner.

They both say they love me.

They both mean it three different ways.