My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
Before I could answer, the soft rustle of silk came from the doorway.
My mother stood there, her fingers resting lightly on her heavy pearl necklace, her face pale but composed.
“Let us put this unpleasant business behind us for the sake of the holiday,” she said, her voice sweet and entirely empty.
She smiled, but her eyes remain entirely cold and fixed on the front door.
My mother turned back toward the kitchen, her heels clicking on the hardwood. I walked past her into the library, where my father sat in the leather chair near his desk.
He did not look up when I entered, his eyes fixed on the blank television screen across the room. His right hand lay flat on the armrest, his index finger tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the leather.
“Dad,” I said, staying near the door. “The night of the accident on Oakridge Road. Who called the insurance company first?”
My father’s finger stopped tapping for a second, then resumed. He gave a low, dry grunt before he spoke.
“The agent handled everything,” he said. “It was five years ago, Mia. There is no reason to drag it up now.”
