The words made my skin crawl.
My mom and fiancée were deep in discussion about shirt colors—debating which ones were cuter—and then mom was already ordering three for Sophie in her favorite colors.
Sophie protested at first, but ultimately stood down in theface of Donna O'Connor's determined mothering.
Meanwhile, I felt like I was about to crawl out of my own skin, barely maintaining the facade of the supportive, loving fiancé.
Elise helped me forget, if only for a moment.
The speaker on the counter hums a low tune, some classic rock song from mom and dad's heyday. She places an ice-cold glass of water in front of me, and I drink greedily, needing to clear my dry throat.
Those narrowed green eyes only sharpen as she takes the chair across from me with her own plate in front of her.
I clear my throat and put my now-empty glass down, "Where's dad?"
"Dallas," her eyes won't leave mine, and I shift in my seat, guilty. "He'll be back tomorrow."
I pick up my fork and try to focus on eating.
She raises an eyebrow, "You look tired, Paul."
"Yeah," I choke down the noodles as they suddenly taste like ash. "Work and... everything. It's been a lot."
"How's our girl?" she asks softly with a small smile, not fishing for information, just pure motherly concern. She's loved Sophie since the first moment she met her—that soft, sweet girl I brought home for Thanksgiving who said,"Please, Mrs. O'Connor,"and,"Thank you, Mr. O'Connor,"and,"Can I help with dinner, Mrs. O'Connor?"
"If you don't marry this girl, I'm just going to adopt her myself,"Mom had told me with a fond smile before we left to go back to school.
I remember my chest puffing out with pride. Sophie was the first girl I'd brought home that my mom genuinely liked.
Mom had never been rude to my exes—and my exes had never been disrespectful—but Sophie's always had a way about her that attracts people to her.
My dad had clapped me on the back and said,"You did good,son,"and I'd felt ten feet tall.
Now, I feel lower than low.
We eat our food, alternating between uncomfortable silences and my mom trying to fill the gaps with small talk—gently asking about Sophie's treatment plan, and me offering short but truthful answers.
When I’ve choked down just enough food to seem acceptable, I grab my plate and bring it to the sink, needing to do something—anything—with my shaky hands.
As I'm placing my plate back into the cabinet, my phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out without thinking.
The face ID flashes and unlocks immediately, opening straight to my last text thread.
With Elise.
Elise: so proud of you for putting yourself first, babe!
come over?
here's a little incentive…
Just as my mom passes behind me to put leftovers in the fridge, the picture comes through.
And it is very clearly not Sophie.
Long blonde hair. No bra. Black lace panties. Bitten lips. Reclining on black silk sheets.
"Shit!" I hiss, quickly locking the phone. It’s too late. I can practically feel the air thicken behind me, and I know—I know—I'm fucked.
