My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
“That curve has poor visibility,” Christopher said, his gravelly rumble completely steady. “The county should have put a light there years ago.”
“They did not need a light,” my mother said, her voice rising, losing its precise, clipped edge. “They needed people to stay sober. They needed drivers who did not flee into the dark like cowards while a woman was trapped in her car.”
“Olivia,” my father warned, his grunt louder this time. “That was settled. The insurance company handled it.”
“It was never settled for me,” my mother said. She stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. The white linen napkin in her hand fell into her plate, soaking up the dark gravy. “I know your face, and I know what you did on that road.”
I stared at her, my thumb frozen on my silver ring. The silence in the room was absolute.
My mother pointed a trembling finger across the dining table at Christopher’s plate.
Christopher didn’t flinch under her gaze. He carefully set his fork down on the edge of the white plate, then looked at my father, who was still tapping his fingers on the armrest of his chair.
