“She said yes, of course.”
My mother adjusted her salmon-colored blazer, smoothing invisible wrinkles. Her eyes didn’t meet mine.
I waited for something—an inhale, a flicker of uncertainty, any sign that she might hesitate. But her expression never changed. She didn’t object. She didn’t argue.
She simply released me. And so I walked away.
Anna and I were married a few months later in the backyard of one of her friends’ houses. There were strands of lights overhead, rows of folding chairs, and the kind of laughter that belongs to people who don’t need to perform for anyone.
We settled into a modest rental with stubborn drawers and a lemon tree out back. Aaron painted his bedroom green and pressed his hands into the wall, leaving bright prints behind. Three months later, standing in the cereal aisle at the grocery store, Aaron glanced up at me and smiled. He said it without thinking—but I heard it clearly. That night, I cried into a stack of freshly folded laundry, realizing for the first time that sorrow and happiness could share the same space.
Our life was simple. Anna worked nights, and I took care of school drop-offs, packed lunches, and reheated dinners.
We spent Saturdays watching cartoons, danced barefoot across the living room, and bought mismatched mugs from yard sales just because they made us laugh.
My mother never reached out—not to check in, not to ask where I’d gone. Then, last week, her name flashed across my phone. She called just after dinner, her voice crisp and controlled, as though no years had passed at all.
“So this is the life you decided on, Jonathan.”
“It is, Mom.”
“Well, I’m back in town after my vacation. I’ll stop by tomorrow. Send me the address. I’d like to see what you gave everything up for.”
When I told Anna, she didn’t even bat an eyelid.
“You’re thinking of deep-cleaning the kitchen, aren’t you?” she asked, pouring herself a cup of tea.
“I don’t want her walking in here and twisting what she sees, honey.”
“She’s going to twist it either way. This is… this is who we are. Let her twist everything, it’s what she does.”
I did clean, but I didn’t stage anything.
My mother showed up the following afternoon, exactly on schedule. She was dressed in a camel-toned coat, heels tapping sharply against our uneven walkway. I smelled her perfume before I saw her.
When I opened the door, she stepped inside without a greeting. She glanced around once, then grabbed the doorframe as if steadying herself.
“Oh my God—what is this?”
She moved through the living room as though the floor might collapse under her heels.
Her gaze skimmed every surface, taking in the thrifted sofa, the nicked coffee table, and the faint crayon streaks Aaron had once drawn along the baseboards—marks I’d never bothered to erase.
She stopped short in the hallway.
Her eyes settled on the faded handprints just outside Aaron’s bedroom—green smears he’d left there himself after we’d painted the room together.
In the corner stood the upright piano. Its finish was worn thin, the left pedal creaked when pressed, and one key refused to rise all the way back up.
Aaron came in from the kitchen with a juice box in hand. He glanced at her, then at the piano. Without a word, he climbed onto the bench and began to play. My mother turned at the sound—and went completely still.
The tune was cautious and unsteady. Chopin. The very piece she had forced me to practice endlessly, until my fingers ached and my hands went numb. Continue reading…
