“I am,” Anna replied with a small laugh. “That’s part of the job.”
My mother asked Aaron a single question about school. When he said his favorite subject was art, she gave a thin smile and disengaged completely. When the bill arrived, she paid only for herself.
“She doesn’t like me,” she said calmly.
“She doesn’t know you,” I answered.
“She doesn’t want to,” Anna replied.
Two years passed.
Anna and I built a quiet life together. One grounded in shared mornings, tired laughter, and the small victories of daily routine. Aaron grew comfortable around me. Comfortable enough to trust. Comfortable enough to belong.
One afternoon, my mother asked me to meet her at a piano showroom downtown. It was a place she loved, a place she once said exposed flaws without mercy.
She ran her fingers along a polished grand piano.
“So,” she said. “Is this relationship going anywhere?”
Her hand froze midair.
“I see,” she said.
“She said yes.”
My mother straightened her jacket and finally looked at me.
“If you marry her,” she said carefully, “don’t ask me for anything. You’re choosing that life.”
There was no anger. No debate. Just dismissal.
I waited for doubt. It never came.
