After my dad passed away six years ago, my mom became a quieter version of herself. Their marriage had been a calm, enduring kind of love—32 years of little gestures and deep connection. He brought her coffee every morning and kissed her temple before heading to work. She always folded his socks with care. After he was gone, I called her daily from two states away, but no phone call could ever replace him.
Then came Raymond. He was a professor at the community college where she worked—polished, charismatic, and attentive. He brought her lunch, fixed the porch light, and even made her laugh again. She told me she hadn’t truly laughed in a long time. For a while, I thought he was helping her heal.
They had a small wedding on the beach—bare feet, soft smiles. She wore a simple dress. He promised to take care of her. I wanted to believe in the promise, even though he occasionally spoke over her or made unnecessary comments about the food. My mom called it compromise. I tried to keep my worries to myself.
Six months later, I visited for a week, carrying muffins and a long overdue hug. She looked smaller. More tired than I remembered.
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