My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
“Thank you, Mother,” I said, taking the heavy fabric into my arms.
The wool was rough and cool against my hands, smelling faintly of mothballs and old paper.
But my mother did not let go of her end of the quilt.
She gripped the fabric tightly, her knuckles turning pale under the dim hallway light, and pulled me a step closer to her.
“He must leave, Mia,” she whispered, her voice a sharp, urgent hiss.
“What?” I asked, looking down at her hands.
“Christopher,” she said, her eyes darting toward the living room doorway. “I want him out of this house before morning.”
“Mother, you just apologized to him,” I said, keeping my own voice low. “You offered him coffee. You talked about a clean slate.”
“That was for your father’s sake,” she said, her grip on the quilt tightening until the fabric strained. “David does not need the stress of this. His heart is not what it was, and I will not have him upset by a stranger.”
“Christopher is not a stranger,” I lied, the words tasting sour in my mouth.
