It dawned on me that after all those excuses, the answer had been the softest one on the list.
“Richard. You don’t have to choose between taking care of your mother and loving me.”
“It gets really bad after dark.”
Evelyn tilted her head, studying Grace the way you’d study a bird on a windowsill.
“Are you the pretty lady my Richard keeps telling me about?”
Grace laughed, cried, and nodded.
“That’s me.”
Grace laughed, cried, and nodded.
***
Weeks later, Sunday dinners moved to 5 p.m.
Richard brought Evelyn when her good days lined up. Chloe, still sheepish about the “borrowed” briefcase, appointed herself keeper of the picture cards.
Mom got the old music box working again. It plinked out something slow and sweet while I set the table.
I’d been so sure Richard was a liar. And he was, but I found out that he was lying about the one person who deserved his love just as much as my mom did.
