Seeing my mom laugh, dress up, and fall in love again after so many lonely years should have been enough to quiet my doubts. Instead, one unanswered question kept growing louder every time Richard came to dinner.
My mom hadn’t hummed in 11 years! Not since Dad died. But there she was on Sunday afternoon, standing in front of her bedroom mirror, humming an old Sinatra tune while she clipped on the pearl earrings Dad gave her for their 30th anniversary. I watched her from the doorway, arms folded, trying not to cry.
“Mom, you look beautiful!”
“Oh, stop,” she said, waving me off with a smile. “It’s just dinner, Avery.”
Not since Dad died.
“You’re even wearing the red dress!” “I’m allowed to wear the red dress.” “You bought that red dress recently, and it’s already been out of the closet more than my winter coat!” Mom laughed, and it was such a nice sound that I almost forgot why I’d come upstairs in the first place. Which, honestly, was to snoop.
“I’m allowed to wear the red dress.”
My mom had been alone for 11 years, and now she was floating around the house like a woman in a shampoo commercial.
The reason was named Richard. He was 52, lived alone as far as we knew, and met her at the community gardening club. He complimented her tomato plants. Within a month, he was bringing her sunflowers.
She was floating around the house.
Within two months, he’d fixed her porch railing without being asked. He remembered that Chloe, my 15-year-old, liked mint chocolate chip and always brought her a pint. Within months, I saw a version of Mom I thought we’d lost with Dad. She bought the red dress, started wearing perfume again, and sometimes smiled at her phone like a teenager. I wanted to like him. I really did.
He’d fixed her porch railing.
*** “So, what time is he coming?” I asked. “Five. And he’ll need to leave by 7:30 p.m. again, so let’s eat by six.” I paused halfway to the stairs. “Seven-thirty again?”
“Avery.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said it with your face.”
“What time is he coming?”
*** Downstairs, Chloe was setting the table with the good plates, the ones Mom only pulled out for company. My daughter had her grandmother’s cheekbones and her father’s stubborn chin, and lately, she’d been watching Richard like a cat watches a screen door. “Cinderella’s coming to dinner,” Chloe announced, folding a napkin into something vaguely swan-shaped. “Be nice.” “I’m being nice. I’m just saying. The man runs on a Cinderella schedule.”
“Cinderella’s coming to dinner.”
“Chloe.” “What?! He does! Every Sunday, boom, 7:30 p.m., out the door like the pumpkin’s about to blow.” She held up the crooked napkin swan and squinted at it. “I’m only half joking, by the way.” I opened my mouth to defend him, then closed it because she wasn’t wrong.
Six months of Sunday dinners, and the man had never once stayed past 7:30 p.m. He was always polite about it. Always had a reason. But the reasons kept shuffling, like someone dealing a new hand every week.
I opened my mouth to defend him.
“Set out the water glasses,” I said instead. “Deflection…” I gave my daughter a look. Mom came down the stairs then, and Chloe whistled low. Mom swatted at her, blushed like a schoolgirl, and asked if her lipstick was too much. It wasn’t. It was perfect. She looked 10 years younger than she had at Christmas!
I gave my daughter a look.
*** Richard arrived exactly at 5 p.m., holding a bouquet of daisies and a bottle of the sparkling grape juice Chloe liked because she was too young for wine. That charming man shook my hand, kissed my mother’s cheek, and asked my daughter about her history project. He was, on paper, wonderful.
But at 7:29 p.m., he’d be gone.
He was, on paper, wonderful.
Chloe caught my eye across the kitchen while Richard was in the living room with Mom, but didn’t say anything. She just tapped her wrist, mouthed the numbers seven-three-zero, and raised one eyebrow so high it nearly touched her hairline. I turned back to the stove and stirred the gravy that didn’t need stirring because, somewhere in my chest, a small, tight knot had started to pull.
Chloe caught my eye across the kitchen.
*** The Sunday after Chloe’s little Cinderella joke, I watched Richard like a woman studying a suspect through a two-way mirror. He was carving the roast beautifully, but also checking his watch between slices. “Big plans tonight, Richard?” I asked, sliding the potatoes over.
“Oh, nothing exciting. I’ve got a client in Singapore, believe it or not. Eight o’clock call.”
Chloe’s fork paused halfway to her mouth.
I watched Richard like a woman studying a suspect.
“Singapore? On a Sunday?” “Markets never sleep, kiddo.” “Cool,” my daughter said. “Neither do plumbers, apparently.” I nearly choked on my water. Two weeks earlier, Richard had rushed out, claiming a plumber was coming to his house at 9 p.m. Even Mom had blinked at that one. Richard laughed it off, but there was a stiffness around his eyes that hadn’t been there when he’d first started coming over.
I nearly choked on my water.
The following Sunday, by 7:25 p.m., his leather briefcase was already in his hand. This time, it was the neighbor. “Mr. Mendez can’t get his blood pressure pills open. Arthritis. I told him I’d swing by.” “That’s so sweet of you,” Mom said, glowing. “So sweet,” I echoed, and Chloe kicked me under the table hard enough to bruise.
“I told him I’d swing by.”
By 7:30 p.m., the porch light was clicking on behind Richard, and the leather tote was tucked under his arm as if it were full of state secrets. Every single Sunday. Like clockwork. Like a man on a leash, we couldn’t see. *** After the dishes, I trapped Mom by the sink.
“Mom, can I ask you something without you getting mad?”
“That’s usually a great start, Avery.”
I trapped Mom by the sink.
“Six months you’ve been dating this man. Have you been inside his house? Even once? Have you seen his kitchen? His couch? His mailbox?” She turned the faucet on harder than the dishes required. “He’s private.” “He’s evasive.” “There’s a difference.” “Is there? Because Chloe says twice now she’s watched him turn south after dinner, and he supposedly lives 20 minutes north.” Mom’s shoulders went tight. She set the plate down with a small, sharp clink.
“He’s evasive.”
“I trust him, Avery.” “Mom, I want to trust him too. I want that for you. But a grown man with no wife, no kids, no roommate, and no reason to be anywhere at 7:30 p.m. on a Sunday…”
“Maybe he has reasons I don’t need to know yet.”
“That’s exactly the problem.” She looked at me then, and I saw something under the defensiveness. Mom knew it too. She just wasn’t ready.
“That’s exactly the problem.”
“Please,” she said quietly. “Let me have this. Even if it turns out badly, let me have the part where I still get to hope.” I didn’t know what to say to that. So I dried a plate. *** Later, on the porch, Chloe sat on the top step with her knees pulled up. I sat down beside her. “Grandma knows something’s up. She’s just scared.”
“Let me have this.”
“Chloe. Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.” “I’m not thinking anything.”
“You’re always thinking something. Your face has a thinking setting, and it’s currently on.”
My daughter smiled a little. “Richard has another woman. Doesn’t he?” “We don’t know that.” “Or another family. A whole secret family in a house with a plumber that only works at night.” “Chloe.”
“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”
“What? I’m just saying what everyone is thinking. Grandma is thinking so, too. She just won’t say it because if she does, it might be true.” I wrapped my arm around her shoulders. “Her birthday is next Sunday,” I said. “I’m asking you, as your mother and as a coward, to please just let us get through dessert. We’ll deal with Richard afterwards.” Chloe was quiet for a long time. So long that I thought maybe I’d won.
“We’ll deal with Richard afterwards.”
Then she said, very evenly, “I’m tired of watching Grandma be lied to.” “Chloe.”
“I love her too, Mom. That’s all I’m saying.”
She stood up, kissed the top of my head as if I were the teenager, and went inside. I sat on the porch a while longer, staring at the street where Richard’s taillights always disappeared.
“I’m tired of watching Grandma be lied to.”
*** Mom fussed with her hair in the hallway mirror for the third time. I could tell she was nervous. It was her 72nd birthday, and she wanted the night to be perfect. “You look gorgeous,” I told her. “I look like a woman who’s trying too hard.” “Grandma, you look like a woman who’s trying just enough,” Chloe called from the couch. “There’s a difference.”
I could tell she was nervous.
*** The doorbell rang at 6 p.m. Richard stood there with a dozen roses in one hand, a wrapped gift in the other, and that leather tote of his tucked under his arm as if it were surgically attached.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart!”
Mom lit up. Honestly, it was hard to stay suspicious when she looked at him like that.
Richard stood there with a dozen roses.
*** Dinner went beautifully. Richard told a story about mistaking a zucchini for a cucumber at the gardening club and slicing it into a salad that nearly killed a man’s taste buds. Mom laughed so hard she snorted, which she hadn’t done since Dad was alive. Then she brought out the pie. “Chocolate pie,” she announced. “I made it because my boyfriend said it was his favorite.” Richard’s face changed into something complicated. Grateful. Guilty. Trapped.
Mom laughed so hard she snorted.
He checked his watch. 7:26 p.m. “Grace, I am so sorry, sweetheart. I have to go.” The room went quiet. Mom’s smile didn’t disappear all at once. It faded in stages, as if somebody were slowly turning down a dimmer.
“Can’t you stay for 10 minutes? It’s my birthday, Richard.”
“I really can’t. I’m so sorry.”
“I have to go.”
He leaned down, kissed her cheek, grabbed the tote, and was out the door before anyone could stop him. The pie sat there on the table like a witness to a crime. Mom sat down slowly. She picked up her fork, set it back down, and folded her hands in her lap. “Mom, are you okay?” “I’m fine, honey.” She wasn’t fine. I knew she wasn’t, and she knew I knew.
“Mom, are you okay?”
Chloe watched Richard through the window. A moment later, my daughter stood up abruptly. “I need to run out. I’ll be right back,” she mumbled.
“Chloe, wait, it’s dark out.”
“Don’t worry, Mom.” The door slammed. I stared at it, then at my mom, then at the untouched pie. “Well,” Mom said with a brittle little laugh. “That’s one way to end a birthday.” “He’s an idiot.” “Avery.”
“I need to run out.”
“He is! Whatever he’s hiding, he’s an idiot for hiding it tonight.” I started clearing plates just to have something to do with my hands. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Twenty. I glanced out the window and saw nothing. “Do you think I should call her?” Mom looked up. “Maybe give it a little more time. She probably needed to clear her head. She’ll be back.”
“Do you think I should call her?”
*** I paced from the kitchen to the living room and back again, chewing the inside of my cheek. My daughter had that look before she left. The look she gets right before she does something I’m going to lecture her about for a week. Nearly 40 minutes after she’d left, footsteps pounded up the porch steps. The door burst open, and Chloe stood in the frame, cheeks streaked with tears, breathing hard. Clutched against her chest was Richard’s leather tote.
I paced.
“Chloe?” My daughter wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Chloe, where did you get that?” She shook her head. “Don’t ask how I got it.” Her voice cracked. “You need to see what he hides in here. And why he never stays past 7:30 p.m.” She walked past me and set the tote down on the dining room table, right next to the birthday pie.
Mom rose slowly from her chair.
“Where did you get that?”
“Chloe, honey, whatever’s in there, maybe we should…” Don’t miss
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“Grandma, look,” my daughter said after opening it. Mom’s hands trembled as she reached for the bag. I stepped closer, bracing myself for lipstick, hotel receipts, some other woman’s photo. Basically, something ugly. The tote fell open. Mom’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God!”
Mom’s hands trembled.
I looked inside. There were old family photos, worn soft at the edges. A little wooden music box with its paint faded. A stack of laminated cards with large print and pictures of everyday things: a spoon, a comb, and a smiling face labeled “son.” And on top, another laminated card in careful handwriting. “My name is Evelyn. Richard is my son. I am safe with him.”
I looked inside.
Chloe wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Grandma, that’s not even the worst part. I saw who he takes this to.” My daughter wiped her nose on her sleeve and started talking fast. “I asked Cindy, my best friend’s sister, to come wait outside so we could follow Richard’s car. He drove south to that memory care facility. He left the tote on the passenger seat and ran inside. The door wasn’t even locked.”
“I saw who he takes this to.”
Chloe saw my concern and quickly said, “I’ll give it back, I swear. I saw an aide wave him in, as if he lives there. There’s a cot, Mom. A folded cot next to a hospital bed.” Grace pressed the laminated card flat against her chest. “Evelyn,” she whispered. “He’s mentioned she’s his mother, but didn’t tell me more.” I sat down hard, still confused. Grace grabbed her coat.
“I’ll give it back.”
“Avery, drive. Now. And don’t lecture me about seatbelts; I’ll put it on.” *** We found Richard in a small room, holding a tiny woman’s hand and reading a picture card aloud as if it were a lifeline. He looked up, saw us, and went the color of paper. “Grace, please! I was going to tell you! My last partner left when she found out. I couldn’t. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Grace walked right past his shame and sat on the edge of the bed.
We found Richard in a small room.
“My mom is 86 and has dementia. It gets really bad after dark. She becomes disoriented, and the only way to calm her down is for me to be right here. I’ve been sleeping here for months. That’s why you’ve never seen my house. There’s barely a house to see.” It dawned on me that after all those excuses, the answer had been the softest one on the list.
“Richard. You don’t have to choose between taking care of your mother and loving me.”
“It gets really bad after dark.”
Evelyn tilted her head, studying Grace the way you’d study a bird on a windowsill. “Are you the pretty lady my Richard keeps telling me about?” Grace laughed, cried, and nodded. “That’s me.”
Grace laughed, cried, and nodded.
*** Weeks later, Sunday dinners moved to 5 p.m. Richard brought Evelyn when her good days lined up. Chloe, still sheepish about the “borrowed” briefcase, appointed herself keeper of the picture cards. Mom got the old music box working again. It plinked out something slow and sweet while I set the table. I’d been so sure Richard was a liar. And he was, but I found out that he was lying about the one person who deserved his love just as much as my mom did.
