My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
“Your registration says David Henderson,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “Is that your father?”
“Yes,” I said. “He bought the car for me when I started at the historical society.”
“What was your mother’s name before they married?” he asked, his eyes remaining on the paper.
“Vance,” I said, my hand pausing on the keys in the ignition. “Olivia Vance. Why do you ask?”
Christopher looked out the side window at the manicured lawn, his face shadowed by the late afternoon light.
“You look like someone I should remember, but the light is poor here,” he said.
“We should go in,” I said, the pressure in my chest tightening. “They like dinner served precisely at six.”
“Of course,” he said, opening his door.
The porch was cold, the air smelling of damp earth and woodsmoke from a neighbor’s chimney. Before I could reach for the brass knocker, the heavy oak door swung open.
My mother stood in the entryway, her graying hair styled in a stiff bob, her tailored knit dress hanging without a single wrinkle. She stepped forward and gave me a brief, firm hug that smelled of expensive French soap.
