She placed a plate down with a sharper clink than necessary.
“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 finally looked at me.
Beneath her defensiveness, I saw something else.
She had noticed it too.
She simply didn’t want to admit it.
“Please,” she said softly. “Let me have this. Even if it turns out badly, let me have the part where I still get to hope.”
I had no answer.
So I dried another plate.
Later, Chloe and I sat together on the porch steps.
“Grandma knows something’s up,” she said. “She’s just scared.”
“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.”
She smiled faintly.
“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.”
“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 an 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 stayed quiet long enough that I thought she might agree.
Then she said calmly, “I’m tired of watching Grandma be lied to.”
“Chloe.”
“I love her too, Mom. That’s all I’m saying.”
She stood, kissed the top of my head as if I were the child, and went inside.
I remained on the porch, watching the street where Richard’s taillights disappeared every Sunday.
The following week was Mom’s 72nd birthday.
She adjusted her hair in the hallway mirror for the third time.
“You look gorgeous,” I told her.
“I look like a woman who’s trying too hard.”
From the couch, Chloe called, “Grandma, you look like a woman who’s trying just enough. There’s a difference.”
The doorbell rang at six.
Richard stood there holding a dozen roses, a wrapped present, and the same leather tote tucked beneath his arm.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart!”
Mom’s whole face lit up.
It was difficult to remain suspicious when she looked at him that way.
Dinner went beautifully.
Richard told a ridiculous story about accidentally mistaking a zucchini for a cucumber at the gardening club.
Mom laughed so hard she snorted.
I hadn’t heard her laugh like that since Dad was alive.
Then she brought out dessert.
“Chocolate pie,” she announced. “I made it because my boyfriend said it was his favorite.”
Something shifted in Richard’s expression.
Gratitude.
Guilt.
Maybe both.
Then he looked at his watch.
7:26 p.m.
“Grace, I am so sorry, sweetheart. I have to go.”
The room fell silent.
Mom’s smile faded slowly.
“Can’t you stay for 10 minutes? It’s my birthday, Richard.”
“I really can’t. I’m so sorry.”
He kissed her cheek, picked up the tote, and left before anyone could stop him.
The chocolate pie remained untouched in the middle of the table.
Mom lowered herself into her chair.
She picked up her fork, then placed it down again.
“Mom, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, honey.”
She wasn’t.
We both knew that.
Chloe stared out the window after Richard.
A moment later, she stood abruptly.
“I need to run out. I’ll be right back.”
“Chloe, wait, it’s dark out.”
“Don’t worry, Mom.”
Before I could stop her, the door slammed behind her.
I looked at the door.
Then at Mom.
Then at the untouched birthday pie.
“Well,” Mom said with a brittle laugh. “That’s one way to end a birthday.”
“He’s an idiot.”
“Avery.”
“He is! Whatever he’s hiding, he’s an idiot for hiding it tonight.”
I began clearing dishes simply to keep my hands occupied.
Ten minutes passed.
Then fifteen.
Then twenty.
I looked through the window.
Nothing.
“Do you think I should call her?”
Mom glanced up.
“Maybe give it a little more time. She probably needed to clear her head. She’ll be back.”
I paced between the kitchen and living room.
Chloe had been wearing that particular expression when she left—the one that usually meant I would be lecturing her for the next week.
Nearly forty minutes later, footsteps thundered up the porch.
The front door flew open.
Chloe stood there breathing hard, tears running down her cheeks.
Pressed tightly against her chest was Richard’s leather tote.
