“I’m seeing someone,” I told her.
Her interest sharpened instantly. “Tell me about her.”
I noticed the brief approval flicker across her face.
“She’s steady,” my mother said. “Responsible. Good.”
“She has a son,” I added. “His name is Aaron. He’s seven.”
The pause was subtle, but it was there. She lifted her glass, took a controlled sip, and recalculated.
“That’s a great deal of responsibility,” she replied evenly.
“She’s a wonderful mother,” I said quickly. “And Aaron is a good kid. He told me I was his favorite adult last week.”
“I’m sure she appreciates the support,” my mother said, her tone cooling. “Men who step in are… useful.”
She never said Anna’s name again that night.
We met at a small café near my apartment. Anna arrived late, apologizing as she rushed in with Aaron at her side. Her babysitter had canceled. There was no alternative.
Anna looked exactly like herself. Kind. Slightly tired. Real. Aaron clung to her hand, eyeing the pastry display with open curiosity.
My mother greeted them politely, but warmth never entered the room.
“You must be exhausted,” she said to Anna.
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