My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
By four, we were back in my living room, the late afternoon light fading into a dull grey outside the window. The space heater hummed on the floor, doing little to cut the damp chill that seemed to rise from the floorboards.
Christopher sat on the edge of the sofa, reaching into his coat pocket to pull out a heavy silver pocket watch. He turned the winding stem with his thumb and forefinger, a dry, metallic clicking sound ticking through the quiet room.
“My father gave me this watch,” Christopher said, his voice low. “It is the only thing I kept from the days before the crash.”
“Did you lose your shop after the accident?” I asked, sitting in the armchair opposite him.
“The medical bills took the tools first,” he said, staring at the face of the watch. “Then the property. A man cannot build a staircase when he cannot lift his left arm above his chest.”
I looked down at my hands, the weight of my own petty lies suddenly feeling incredibly small compared to the silence in his voice. I had hired him for a hot meal and a warm suit, never asking what he had left behind on that road.
