But I still told her I was seeing someone.
We met at one of her favorite restaurants — quiet, expensive, dark wood, starched linen napkins folded like origami.
She wore navy, her signature color when she wanted to be taken seriously, and ordered wine before I even sat down.
“So?” she asked, tilting her head. “Is this a real-life update, Jonathan, or are we just catching up?”
“I’m seeing someone,” I said.
“What’s she like?” Her smile was sharp with interest.
“Anna is a nurse,” I said. “She works nights.”
I saw approval flicker.
“Parents?” she asked immediately.
“Both alive,” I said. “Her mom’s a teacher, her dad’s a doctor.”
“Wonderful,” my mother said, clapping her hands once like she’d just approved an investment.
Then I added the part that mattered most.
“She’s also a single mom. Her son is seven.”
My mother paused in a way most people wouldn’t notice — but I did.
She sipped her wine, recalibrating like she’d hit a bump in the road.
“That’s a lot of responsibility for someone your age,” she said politely.
“She’s incredible,” I said. “And Aaron is a great kid. He told me I’m his favorite grown-up.”
My mother dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “I’m sure she appreciates the help, Jonathan. A good man is hard to find.”
No warmth. No curiosity. No invitation.
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