Tonight I was treated to another bedtime confession – this time, by my oldest. He’s had his driver’s license for a month now and, because he’s not a social creature, I’m having to push him to use this new privilege, if only so he gets more experience. I knew this might be an issue, so I immediately made his two favorite things – milk and pizza – his responsibility.

If he wants pizza for dinner (a once-a-week Bradley tradition for at least a dozen years), he has to pick it up and bring it home. And any time we’re out of milk, it’s his job to restock our refrigerator. Although, I’m starting to rethink that one, since he’s taken to bringing home FOUR gallons of milk every time he shops – a combination of loving the stuff and wanting to avoid multiple trips each week.

When our bedside chat expanded beyond running errands, I watched him shift uncomfortably in his bed, as if trying to make himself smaller. I pointed out that he’d be 18 next year and starting college. Although we both know he’ll live at home for at least his first year, we’ve talked about the freedom and responsibilities that accompany college life. A part-time job, paying bills, maintaining a car, navigating class schedules. I don’t remember ever deciding if I was ready to do those things, I just did them, and I tried to convince him growing up would be the same for him. Eventually, he’ll just start taking on more and more responsibilities, until one day he’s completely on his own.

He looked up at me, uninspired by my story, and said, “But once people know I’m capable of doing those things, they’ll expect me to keep doing them.” And I knew exactly how he felt.

Last week, I announced to the world (i.e., posted on Facebook) that I’m dating again. I affectionately referred to him as my unicorn, a pop culture reference to the perfect single guy: employed, attractive and with a proven track record of commitment (a widower). The joke being, they’re as rare (or unreal) as a unicorn.

I fully expected to have a few friends claim whiplash, considering how angst-ridden my blog posts remained right up to my big reveal. Like my teenager, who fears taking on any responsibility means he has to take on all responsibilities, I’ve been afraid to say out loud, “This man makes me happy.”

What if things don’t work out? People will expect me to keep being happy. I still get emotionally blindsided by the dumbest things. I can’t really be happy if I’m still grieving, right?

Oh, sweet Leah. I indulged my inner worry wart, making list after list in my head of why it was probably too soon to make my relationship “Facebook official.” Then, a friend sent me a photo she took of us at a fundraiser – our first very public date (meaning not just us in a restaurant, but us in a room full of people who know me) and this was our first photo together. We’ve dated for a year and I’ve never found the opportunity (or the courage) to get a picture of us together. Suddenly, wild horses couldn’t have stopped me from clicking “share.”

Even if he dumped me tomorrow, I won’t regret announcing him to the world because, in that moment, I claimed my happiness. And it doesn’t mean I’m not still sad (sometimes), but it’s proof that I can be happy and will keep being happy. I’ve been waiting for something (don’t ask me what) to tell me when it’s time to be happy again. But, like growing up, I look around and realize I’m already doing it.

My oldest is right, once people see what he’s capable of, they’ll come to expect it. That’s why I’m doubling down and sharing my story here. This man has shown me what I’m capable of feeling and I’m not going back. Only forward.