Part 2

Seeing my mom laugh, dress up, and fall in love again after so many lonely years should have been enough to silence my doubts. Instead, one question grew louder every time Richard came to dinner.

My mom hadn’t hummed in eleven years—not since Dad passed away.

But there she was one Sunday afternoon, standing in front of her bedroom mirror and humming an old Sinatra tune while fastening the pearl earrings Dad had given her for their thirtieth anniversary.

I leaned against the doorway with my arms folded, trying not to get emotional. “Mom, you look beautiful!”

“Oh, stop,” she said, waving me away with a smile. “It’s just dinner, Avery.”

“You’re even wearing the red dress!”

“I’m allowed to wear the red dress.”

“You bought that red dress recently, and it’s already been out of the closet more than my winter coat!”

Mom laughed. It was such a wonderful sound that for a moment, I forgot why I had come upstairs, which was to snoop. My mother had been alone for eleven years, and now she moved around the house like someone had turned the lights back on.

The reason was Richard. He was fifty-two, apparently lived alone, and had met Mom through the community gardening club after complimenting her tomato plants.

Within a month, he was bringing her sunflowers. Within two months, he had repaired her porch railing without being asked. He even remembered that my fifteen-year-old daughter, Chloe, loved mint chocolate chip ice cream and often brought her a pint.

After a few months, Mom seemed like a version of herself I thought we had lost when Dad died. She bought the red dress, started wearing perfume again, and sometimes smiled at her phone like a teenager.

I wanted to like Richard. I really did.

“So, what time is he coming?” I asked.

“Five. And he’ll need to leave by 7:30 p.m. again, so let’s eat by six.”

I stopped halfway toward the stairs. “Seven-thirty again?”

“Avery.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said it with your face.”

Downstairs, Chloe was setting the table with Mom’s good plates. My daughter had her grandmother’s cheekbones, her father’s stubborn chin, and lately she’d been watching Richard with increasing suspicion.

“Cinderella’s coming to dinner,” Chloe announced while folding a napkin into something that only vaguely resembled a swan.

“Be nice.”

“I’m being nice. Every Sunday, boom, 7:30 p.m., out the door like the pumpkin’s about to blow.” She examined the crooked napkin. “I’m only half joking, by the way.”

For six months, Richard had joined us for Sunday dinner, and not once had he stayed beyond 7:30 p.m. He was always polite about leaving, and he always had an explanation, but the explanations changed every week.

Part 3

The following Sunday, I watched Richard more carefully. He was carving the roast beautifully while repeatedly checking his watch.

“Big plans tonight, Richard?” I asked, passing him the potatoes.

“Oh, nothing exciting. I’ve got a client in Singapore, believe it or not. Eight o’clock call.”

Chloe’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth. “Singapore? On a Sunday?”

“Markets never sleep, kiddo.”

“Cool,” she said. “Neither do plumbers, apparently.”

Two weeks earlier, Richard had hurried away because a plumber was supposedly coming to his house at 9 p.m. Richard laughed off Chloe’s comment, but something around his eyes tightened.

The next Sunday, his leather briefcase was already under his arm by 7:25. This week’s reason was his neighbor needing help opening blood pressure pills.

After we finished the dishes, I cornered Mom at the sink. “Six months you’ve been dating this man. Have you been inside his house? Even once?”

“He’s private,” she replied, turning the faucet higher.

“He’s evasive. Chloe says twice now she’s watched him turn south after dinner, and he supposedly lives twenty minutes north.”

Mom’s shoulders stiffened. “I trust him, Avery. Please, let me have this. Even if it turns out badly, let me have the part where I still get to hope.”

Later, Chloe and I sat together on the porch steps.

“Richard has another woman, doesn’t he?” Chloe asked. “Or another family. A whole secret family in a house with a plumber that only works at night.”

“Her birthday is next Sunday,” I said softly. “Please just let us get through dessert. We’ll deal with Richard afterwards.”

Chloe stayed quiet before standing up. “I’m tired of watching Grandma be lied to.”

The following week was Mom’s seventy-second birthday. Dinner went beautifully, and Mom brought out a chocolate pie she had made specifically because Richard said it was his favorite.

Something shifted in Richard’s expression—gratitude, guilt, or maybe both. Then he looked at his watch: 7:26 p.m.

“Grace, I am so sorry, sweetheart. I have to go.”

“Can’t you stay for ten minutes? It’s my birthday, Richard.”

“I really can’t.” He kissed her cheek, picked up his briefcase, and left.

Mom sat down, heartbroken, while Chloe stared out the window before abruptly running out the door into the dark.

Part 4

Nearly forty minutes passed before footsteps thundered up the porch. The front door flew open, and Chloe stood there breathing hard, tears running down her cheeks, with Richard’s leather briefcase pressed tightly against her chest.

“Chloe, where did you get that?” I gasped.

“Don’t ask how I got it,” she sobbed. “You need to see what he hides in here. And why he never stays past 7:30 p.m.”

She placed the briefcase on the dining table and opened it. Mom reached inside, expecting the worst, but her hand flew to her mouth.

Inside were old, worn family photographs, a small faded wooden music box, and a stack of laminated cards printed with large letters alongside pictures of ordinary objects—a spoon, a comb, a smiling man labeled “son.” On top was a handwritten card: “My name is Evelyn. Richard is my son. I am safe with him.”

Chloe wiped her tears. “I asked Cindy to help me follow Richard’s car. He drove south to a memory care facility, left the briefcase on the passenger seat, and ran inside. There’s a folded cot next to a hospital bed in his mom’s room.”

Mom’s eyes welled with tears. “Evelyn… he mentioned her, but didn’t tell me.” She grabbed her coat. “Avery, drive. Now.”

We arrived at the facility and found Richard inside a small room, holding an elderly woman’s hand while reading from the cards. When he turned and saw us, the color drained from his face.

“Grace, please! I was going to tell you! My last partner left when she found out. I’m so sorry.”

Mom walked past him and sat on the edge of the bed.

“My mom is eighty-six and has dementia,” Richard explained softly. “It gets really bad after dark. She becomes disoriented, and the only way to calm her down is for me to be right here. I’ve been sleeping here for months. That’s why you’ve never seen my house.”

Mom looked at him with gentle warmth. “Richard. You don’t have to choose between taking care of your mother and loving me.”

Evelyn turned toward Mom and studied her face. “Are you the pretty lady my Richard keeps telling me about?”

Mom laughed through her tears. “That’s me.”

A few weeks later, Sunday dinners moved to 5 p.m. On Evelyn’s good days, Richard brought her along. Chloe appointed herself official keeper of the picture cards, and Mom repaired Evelyn’s old music box so its soft melody could play while we set the table. Richard hadn’t been hiding another woman—he was protecting the one who needed him most.