The meeting she didn’t want
A few weeks later, I brought Anna and Aaron to meet her anyway.
We met at a coffee shop near my apartment. Anna was ten minutes late — her sitter canceled last minute, and she had to bring Aaron.
I could feel my mother’s irritation grow with every tick of the clock.
When Anna walked in, she looked flustered. Loose bun. Jeans. Pale blouse. One side of her collar curled up like she’d dressed in a rush.
Aaron clung to her hand, eyes scanning the pastry case like it was the safest thing in the room.
“This is Anna,” I said. “And this is Aaron.”
My mother stood, offered her hand, and smiled without warmth.
“You must be exhausted,” my mother said.
“I am,” Anna replied with a soft laugh. “It’s been one of those days.”
We sat down. My mother asked Aaron exactly one question.
“What’s your favorite subject in school?”
“Art,” he said.
She rolled her eyes — actually rolled them — and ignored him for the rest of the visit.
When the check came, she paid for herself.
In the car afterward, Anna looked at me calmly.
“She doesn’t like me, Jon.”
“She doesn’t know you,” I said.
Anna didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t dramatize. She just said the truth.
“Maybe. But it’s clear she doesn’t want to.”
Two years later, my mother asked the question she always asked when she wanted control back.
We met at the old piano showroom uptown — the place she used to take me as a kid, telling me the acoustics were “clean enough to hear your mistakes.”
Grand pianos lined the room like prize horses.
She ran her fingers along a polished lid and looked at me.
“So, Jonathan,” she said. “Is this going somewhere, or are we wasting time?”
I didn’t hesitate.
“I asked Anna to marry me.”
Her hand froze midair.
“I see,” she said.
“She said yes.”
My mother’s voice stayed level, surgical.
“Then let me be very clear. If you marry her, don’t ever ask me for anything again. You’re choosing that life, Jonathan.”
I waited for a tremble. A crack. Anything that suggested doubt.
Nothing.
So I left.
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