The reason was Richard.
He was 52, 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 15-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.
She started wearing perfume again.
Sometimes she 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, the ones she only used when company came over.
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. I’m just saying. The man runs on a Cinderella schedule.”
“Chloe.”
“What?! He does! 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.”
I nearly defended him.
Then I stopped.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
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.
The problem was that the explanations changed every week.
“Set out the water glasses,” I said.
“Deflection…”
I gave her a look.
Mom came downstairs, and Chloe let out a low whistle.
Mom swatted at her, blushing like a teenager, then asked whether her lipstick was too much.
It wasn’t.
She looked nearly ten years younger than she had at Christmas.
Richard arrived precisely at 5 p.m. carrying daisies and a bottle of sparkling grape juice for Chloe.
He shook my hand, kissed Mom’s cheek, and asked Chloe about her history project.
On paper, he was wonderful.
But I already knew that by 7:29, he’d be preparing to leave.
While Richard and Mom talked in the living room, Chloe caught my eye from across the kitchen.
She tapped her wrist, silently mouthed seven-three-zero, then raised one eyebrow.
I turned toward the stove and stirred gravy that didn’t need stirring.
Somewhere inside me, the doubt had started tightening into a knot.
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.”
I nearly choked.
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