My mother hadn’t hummed in eleven years. Not since my father died. And then, one Sunday afternoon, I found her in front of her mirror, her pearl earrings in, humming Sinatra with a smile I hadn’t seen from her in ages. Richard was 57, grew tomatoes, and brought her sunflowers. He seemed perfect. Except that he always left before dessert, without fail, every week, at 7:30 sharp.
Richard had rekindled something in her
In just a few months, my mother was back to her old self. The red dress was out of the closet again, her perfume was back, and that little smile played at her corner when her phone vibrated… She was radiant. Richard repaired the railings without being asked, remembered that my daughter Chloé loved chocolate-mint ice cream, and looked at my mother as if she were the brightest person in the room.
I would have liked to be satisfied with that.
But something was wrong.
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