“I miss him,” I said. The words came out rough.
“I know, baby.” Mom crossed to me, wrapped her arm around my waist. “I miss him too. Every single day.”
We stood there for a while, just holding on to each other. I breathed in the familiar smell of her perfume—something floral, the same scent she’d worn my entire life—and let myself be held the way I hadn’t in months.
The morning was peaceful.It reminded me of the way things used to be. Mom had me chopping vegetables for a salad while she worked. We didn’t talk much, but the silence was comfortable in a way it hadn’t been since before Dad got sick. There was something grounding about the work—the repetitive motion of the knife, the pile of carrots and celery growing on the cutting board, the simple task of contributing to something.
“I wanted to do something,” Mom said, breaking the silence. “To honor your father. Today.”
I set down the knife. “What did you have in mind?”
“I found some of his old photos in the garage.” She kept her eyes on the casserole, layering marshmallows with careful precision. “Some from before we were married, all the way through his retirement. I thought we could look through them together. See him the way he used to be.”
My throat went tight. “I’d like that.”
“I wasn’t sure if it would be too hard for you.”
“It might be.” I picked up the knife again, resumed chopping. “But I want to remember him like that. Not just the way he was at the end.”
Mom nodded, her jaw working. For a moment, I thought she might cry, but she just took a breath and went back to what she was doing.
“There’s something else,” she said. “Something I need to tell you.”
The shift in her tone made me pause. I watched her wipe her hands on a dish towel, watched her take a breath like she was steeling herself.
“I’ve been seeing someone.”
The words didn’t register at first. I stood there with the knife in my hand, celery half-chopped on the board, trying to make sense of what she’d said.
“Seeing someone,” I repeated.
“His name is Frank. We met at the grief support group I joined last spring.” She was speaking fast now, like she’d been rehearsing this. “He lost his wife three years ago. Breast cancer. We started talking after meetings, and it just…happened.”
I set down the knife because I didn’t trust my hands. “How long?”
“Four months.”
Four months. She’d been dating someone for four months, and I hadn’t known. All those phone calls, all those check-ins, and she’d never mentioned?—
“I wanted to tell you in person,” she said, reading my expression. “I know the timing is… I know it’s complicated.”
“It’s not complicated.” The words came out too fast. “You’re allowed to be happy, Mom. Dad would want you to be happy.”
“I know that. In my head, I know that.” She twisted the dish towel between her hands. “But it feels wrong sometimes. Like I’m betraying him by moving on.”
“You’re not betraying anyone.”
“He was sick for so long. And I loved him—god, I loved him—but by the end, I was so tired. So worn out from watching him disappear.” Her voice cracked. “And now I feel guilty for being relieved that it’s over. For finding something good in the middle of all this grief.”
I crossed to her, wrapped my arms around her the way she’d held me earlier. She was crying now, quiet tears that soaked into my shirt.
“You carried so much,” I said. “For so long. You don’t have to feel guilty for wanting to live again.”
“When did you get so wise?”
“I’m not wise. I’m just good at telling other people things I can’t believe about myself.”
She laughed, watery and raw. Pulled back and wiped her face with the dish towel. “He’s coming for dinner. Frank. If that’s okay. I wanted you to meet him.”
