My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
My mother stood abruptly, the pearls clicking against her collarbone. She did not wait for us to follow, walking straight toward the dining room where the scent of roasted garlic and rosemary hung heavy in the air.
We took our seats around the cherry wood table that my father polished every spring. My mother sat at the head, her posture as rigid as the high-backed chair. She carved the roast beef with slow, deliberate strokes, her wrist flexing under her gold watch.
“So, Christopher,” she said, passing a plate of meat across the linen tablecloth. “Mia tells us you have a home in Philadelphia. Which neighborhood?”
Christopher took the plate, his large, rough hand steady against the fine china. “I spent some time near Germantown,” he said, his rumble low and even. “The older stone houses there have a lot of character.”
“Germantown,” my mother repeated, her eyes narrowing as she served my father. “My cousin lived there in the nineties. It has grown quite crowded. What did you say your family does there?”
My father picked up his fork, tapping it once against the rim of his water glass. “Let the man eat, Olivia,” he grunted.
