My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
The dining room went very quiet, save for the rhythmic hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen behind us. My mother did not touch her water. She sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her chin tilted upward.
“Yes,” my mother murmured, a faint, cold smile appearing on her face. “The roads in this county are treacherous. Especially in the autumn. Five years ago, I was driving home on Oakridge Road. A Tuesday night. The leaves were wet, just like they are tonight.”
My father stopped chewing. He did not look up from his plate, but his fingers began to tap a slow, silent rhythm against the edge of the cherry table.
“I remember,” I said, trying to pull the conversation back to safety. “You were in a cast for three months, Mother.”
“A fractured wrist,” my mother said, her eyes locked on Christopher’s face. “The doctors said I would never have the full use of my hand again. All because someone decided to speed through the blind curve near the old mill and run me into the ditch.”
