Seeing my 72-year-old mother laugh again, dress up, and fall in love after so many lonely years should have been enough to silence every doubt I had.
Instead, one unanswered question grew louder every time Richard came to dinner.
My mom hadn’t hummed in 11 years.
Not since Dad died.
But that Sunday afternoon, I stood in the doorway of her bedroom and watched her hum an old Sinatra tune as she stood in front of the mirror, carefully clipping the pearl earrings Dad had given her for their 30th anniversary onto her ears.
I folded my arms, trying not to cry.
“Mom, you look beautiful.”
“Oh, stop,” she said, waving me away with a smile. “It’s just dinner, Avery.”
Not since Dad died.
And she was wearing the red dress.
“You’re even wearing the red dress!” I said.
“I’m allowed to wear the red dress.”
“You bought that dress recently, and it’s already been out of the closet more than my winter coat!”
Mom laughed.
It was such a warm, genuine sound that, for a moment, I almost forgot why I’d come upstairs in the first place.
Honestly, I had come to snoop.
My mother had been alone for 11 years, and now she was floating around the house like a woman in a shampoo commercial.
The reason had a name.
Richard.
He was 52, lived alone as far as we knew, and had met my mother at the community gardening club. Apparently, he’d complimented her tomato plants.
Within a month, he was bringing her sunflowers.
Within two months, he’d repaired her porch railing without even being asked.
He also remembered that my 15-year-old daughter, Chloe, loved mint chocolate chip ice cream. He never showed up for dinner without bringing her a pint.
And over those first few months, I began seeing a version of Mom that I honestly thought we’d lost forever when Dad died.
She bought the red dress.
She started wearing perfume again.
Sometimes, she’d look down at her phone and smile like a teenager.
I wanted to like Richard.
I really did.
After all, he’d fixed her porch railing.
But there was something about him I couldn’t explain.
Something I couldn’t quite ignore.
“So, what time is he coming?” I asked.
“Five. And he’ll need to leave by 7:30 again, so let’s eat by six.”
I stopped halfway down the stairs.
“Seven-thirty again?”
“Avery.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said it with your face.”
I sighed.
“What time is he coming?”
Downstairs, Chloe was setting the table with the good plates, the ones Mom only brought out when company came over.
My daughter had inherited her grandmother’s cheekbones and her father’s stubborn chin. Lately, she’d also developed a habit of watching Richard the way a cat watches a screen door.
“Cinderella’s coming to dinner,” Chloe announced as she folded a napkin into something that vaguely resembled a swan.
“Be nice.”
“I’m being nice. I’m just saying. The man runs on a Cinderella schedule.”
“Chloe.”
“What? He does! Every Sunday, boom, 7:30 p.m., out the door like the pumpkin is about to blow.”
She held up the crooked napkin swan and examined it.
“I’m only half joking, by the way.”
I opened my mouth to defend Richard.
Then I closed it.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
For six months, Richard had never stayed past 7:30 p.m. at our Sunday dinners.
Not once.
He was always polite about leaving. He always had a reason.
But the reasons kept changing, one week after another, like someone dealing a new hand of cards.
