My son stands at the head of the table, smiling for the countless phone cameras aimed at his face, lighting it up with flashes. His smile was real at first, I’m sure, but as time wore on, it became less and less so. His face strained to keep that happy façade, when all he wants to do is move on. 

My wife is beside me, taking photos of her own. I took one, too, but one was enough for me. The purpose is to capture the moment, after all. Anything past that is just a caricature of the event that’s depicted. 

I honestly don’t think I remember how to do a real smile. The grin I’ve plastered onto my face is no more than a mask I’m forced to put on, whenever I’m expected to do so. It’s tedious, exhausting. Though, so is life, I suppose. 

I think back to when I met my first wife, all those years ago. She was gorgeous, with a smile that lit up the room like a star in the night sky, and the voice of a songbird. She was everything I could have possibly wanted. I remember wanting to spend the rest of my life with her, just existing together in tandem, floating through the river of life without a care in the world. 

My second wife was beautiful, too. Tall, sleek jet-black hair down to her waist, eyes so emerald that they didn’t look real. I remember wanting to go everywhere with her, seeing all the sights that there ever were, never growing bored for the rest of eternity. 

By the time I met my third wife, my excitement was starting to wane. 

By the tenth, I stayed with her just to have someone; anyone. 

This is the twenty-third. And I don’t know why I do it anymore. 

It could be force of habit. Finding someone new after the person I have moves on. 

Perhaps it’s fear of being alone, or just desiring someone to talk to every now and then. 

Maybe I’m addicted to love. 

The worst part about it is knowing that it will always end, and whenever it does, the grief still hits me just as hard as the first time. 

The cameras finally stop flashing, and my son’s smile gives way to a neutral, natural expression. I know that in fifty or sixty years, I’ll be here again, at another family gathering, with another wife, wearing another forced smile. Except, unlike my son, I can’t stop wearing it.