“Mom, I met someone.”
“Okay,” I said. “Tell me.”
“He’s older. Don’t start.”
“How much older?”
Every time I asked for details, she dodged.
“Just meet him first,” she said. “I don’t want you stuck on a number.”
Over the next few weeks, I heard “emotionally intelligent,” “he makes me feel safe,” and not much else. She kept promising I’d meet him “soon,” then pushing it back.
Finally:
“Dinner Friday. Please be nice.”
I cleaned the house like I was being graded. Cooked her favorite pasta. Put on a dress. My stomach was doing backflips.
There was a knock.
I opened the door—and my past hit me in the face.
“You know each other?”
Emily stood there smiling, holding hands with a man behind her.
He stepped forward, and my brain stalled.
Same brown eyes. Same jaw. Older—but absolutely him.
“Mark?” I whispered.
His eyes went wide. “Lena?”
Emily blinked between us. “Wait. You know each other?”
“You could say that,” I said tightly. “Emily, take his coat. Mark, kitchen. Now.”
“What is this?” I hissed. “You’re my age. You’re 20 years older than my daughter. And you’re my ex.”
He lifted his hands. “Lena, I swear, I didn’t know she was your daughter at first.”
“At first,” I repeated. “So you figured it out.”
“Yeah. But I love her.”
Before I could unload, Emily walked in.
“Are you interrogating my boyfriend?”
“Emily,” I said, “this is Mark from high school. We dated for over a year.”
Her face went flat. “You never told me that.”
“I didn’t know he was this Mark. You never told me his last name. Or that he’s my age.”
Mark cleared his throat. “I know it’s strange. But I care about her. I’m not going anywhere.”
Emily moved closer to him.
