My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
The afternoon sun was thin, casting long, pale shadows across the asphalt as we turned onto my parents’ street. Christopher sat in the passenger seat with his hands flat on his knees, his charcoal wool sweater smelling of Frank’s barbershop and clean wool. He looked out the window at the brick houses with their neat lawns and fading hydrangeas, his face perfectly still.
“We have to go inside,” I said, keeping my hands on the steering wheel.
“I know,” Christopher said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.
“They won’t expect us,” I said. “They think we left the county.”
“They think I went back to the shelter,” he said.
“I want my father to look at the deputy’s signature on the payroll ledger,” I said, my thumb turning my silver band around and around. “He needs to know we have the proof in our hands.”
“Your mother will not admit it easily,” Christopher said.
“She won’t have a choice,” I said.
