I sat across from my mother in the restaurant she loved—dark wood everywhere, crisp white linens, the scent of wine in the air. She wore navy and had already ordered her glass before I even sat down.
“So,” she said, looking at me carefully, “is this important?”
I swallowed. “I’m seeing someone. Her name is Anna. She’s a nurse.”
A flicker of approval crossed her face. “Good. Parents?”
“Both alive. Her mom’s a teacher. Her dad’s a doctor.”
She smiled, but then I added, “She’s also a single mother. Her son is seven.”
The air shifted. Her tone cooled. “That’s a lot of responsibility.”
“She’s an incredible mother,” I told her. “And her son… he’s special.”
She said nothing more about Anna’s name after that night.
Weeks later, I brought Anna and her son Aaron to meet her at a small café. Anna arrived late, flustered, Aaron holding her hand. My mother greeted them politely—but without warmth.
She asked Aaron one question: “What’s your favorite subject?”
“Art,” he said shyly.
She rolled her eyes and ignored him the rest of the visit. When the bill came, she paid only for herself.
In the car, Anna whispered, “She doesn’t like me.”
“She doesn’t know you,” I replied.
“She doesn’t want to.”
That was the night everything began to unravel, and I realized nothing would ever be the same.
