My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
“David Henderson,” my father said, extending a hand to Christopher. “Good to meet you.”
“Christopher,” he replied, his rumble filling the narrow space.
My father looked down, his eyes lingering on Christopher’s scuffed brown leather shoes, which did not match the quality of the seventy-dollar charcoal sweater. He grunted once, a sound that usually meant he was calculating the price of something.
“Let us get a drink,” my father said, gesturing toward the living room. “I have a decent scotch.”
“Water is fine,” Christopher said.
We moved into the room, where the large bay window looked out over the darkened back garden. My mother followed us, her movements stiff, almost mechanical. She sat on the edge of the high-backed armchair, her eyes locked onto Christopher’s face.
“Mia tells us you do restoration work, Christopher,” my father said, pouring himself two fingers of amber liquid from a crystal decanter.
“I do,” Christopher said, sitting on the sofa beside me. “Mostly historical structures.”
My mother’s hand stayed resting on her pearl necklace, her knuckles white.
