My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the steady, metallic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room.
“I remember the weeks following that November night so clearly,” my mother said, leaning her head back against the cream upholstery. “The hospital was so cold, and the doctors were quite convinced I would never have full use of my hand again.”
She held up her right hand, flexing her fingers slowly in the lamplight.
“My wrist was in a heavy plaster cast for three full months after the crash,” she said, her voice dropping to a confidential whisper. “I could not even lift a teacup, let alone drive. David had to do everything for me.”
My father nodded slowly, his fingers continuing their steady tap on the armrest. “It was a long winter,” he muttered.
“Three months is a very long time for a simple fracture,” Christopher said, his cup resting untouched in his lap.
“It was a shattered joint,” my mother corrected quickly, her tone sharpening for a fraction of a second before she smoothed it over with a smile. “The bone was in pieces, Christopher. I spent hours every week with a private physical therapist just to regain the ability to hold a pen.”
