My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
I did not answer, watching the water in the kettle begin to simmer.
“We have our position to think of,” she said. “The historical society has several board members who sit on the township committee, Mia. You must think about your own future.”
“My future is here,” I said.
“I am only asking for your discretion,” she said, her tone softening into the familiar maternal plea she used when her authority failed. “We can put this behind us. We can have dinner next week, just the three of us.”
“No,” I said.
The silence on the other end of the line was long, the only sound the faint static of the connection between our houses.
“Mia,” she said again, but the name sounded empty now, like a word spoken into an empty room.
I lowered the receiver and placed it back on the cradle, the black plastic clicking into place with a final, quiet snap.
The kettle began to whistle, a thin, rising tone that I cut short by turning the gas dial to the left.
