After eight years alone, I finally brought the man I loved home to meet my adult son. But the moment Richard saw Jason, he went pale and backed toward the car. Then my son said his name—and Richard whispered, “Ask him what he did to Emily.”
The barbecue smoke curled over Jason’s fence as I stepped into his backyard.
My hand was tucked into Richard’s arm.
I was ready to give my son the introduction I had rehearsed a hundred times in my head.
I was sixty years old, and for eight years after my husband died, I had believed the romantic part of my life was finished.
I had believed the romantic part of my life was finished.
Then Richard came along.
Kind, funny, sixty-two, and never once making me feel I had to shrink myself to be worth his attention.
We had taken things slowly for six months.
Coffee turned into dinner.
Dinner turned into weekends.
We had taken things slowly for six months.
My son Jason, thirty-four and fiercely protective since his father passed, had spent those months circling the subject like a hawk.
“So when do I finally meet this mystery man?” he had asked, again and again.
“Soon,” I always told him.
The truth was that I was terrified.
“So when do I finally meet this mystery man?”
I loved my son.
I was falling in love with Richard.
And more than anything, I wanted the two of them to like each other.
On the drive over that August afternoon, Richard gripped the wheel a little too tightly.
“What if he hates me?” he asked.
I wanted the two of them to like each other.
“He won’t,” I promised. “Jason just worries. Once he sees how you treat me, he’ll relax.”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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