My mom was 45 when she told me she’d met someone new. I remember the way her voice softened, the way her fingers twisted nervously with excitement she couldn’t hide. She’d spent most of her adult life putting everyone else first — work, bills, survival, and me. Love wasn’t just overdue; it was something I genuinely wanted her to have.
But then she introduced Aaron.
Twenty-five. Bright smile. Smooth confidence. He looked more like someone I’d meet at my college friends’ barbecues, not sitting beside my mother at a restaurant, holding her hand like he belonged there.
My reaction wasn’t proud. I smiled, I shook his hand, I asked polite questions — and all the while, something inside me tightened. I told myself it was instinct. Protection. The kind of suspicion adult children feel when they think someone too young, too polished, too charming suddenly wants to be part of their parent’s life.
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