I’d spent the whole day preparing to meet the young woman my son couldn’t stop talking about. By the end of the night, I was facing a secret I’d buried for more than two decades.
The roast was already in the oven when I caught myself checking the clock for the third time in 10 minutes.
My hands smelled of rosemary and garlic. I wiped them on the towel tucked into my apron, trying to steady the flutter under my ribs.
Aiden was bringing her home. Finally.
I caught myself checking the clock.
***
For almost six months, my son had been talking about a girl named Melany. Not in the casual way he used to mention names in passing, but softly, the way people speak about someone they’ve already made room for.
I’d never heard him sound like that before.
I checked the potatoes. I checked the wine. I straightened the framed photos on the mantel, the same ones I always fidgeted with when I was nervous.
I’d never heard him sound like that before.
There he was at six, missing two front teeth. At 12, on his blue bike. At 18, in his graduation cap, grinning as if the world belonged to him.
I paused at the baby picture, the one where he was barely a week old. He was wrapped in the yellow blanket I’d bought the day before he was taken home. A small ache moved through my chest, familiar as breath.
I tucked it away, as I always did.
A small ache moved through my chest.
Aiden had called and said they were coming home from college for the weekend.
So, I spent all of Saturday preparing his favorite dinner.
***
The doorbell rang. I’d told that boy many times that he needed to stop doing that. But he found it funny how annoyed I got when he didn’t just use his key.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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