My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
We parked behind my building and walked up the three flights of stairs in silence.
Inside my small apartment, the fifty-dollar space heater hummed in the corner, casting a faint orange glow on the floorboards.
I went into the kitchen, my hands still stiff, and reached for the first mug I could find in the cupboard.
It was a cracked ceramic mug, the blue glaze chipped near the handle, but it was wide and heavy.
I poured the hot tea and carried it into the living room, setting it down on the wooden coaster.
Christopher had not sat down on the sofa; he stood by the small counter, his eyes fixed on my brass mailbox key.
“I will play the part,” he said, turning to look at me, “but we must keep the details simple.”
“We can write them down,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
I watched him sip his tea, his hands trembling slightly against the warm clay.
By nine the next morning, the kitchen table was covered in sheets of yellow lined paper. We needed a story that my mother could not dismantle with one of her sharp, targeted questions.
