I turned off the water and gripped the edge of the sink, staring out the window at the small backyard where Eddie had once learned to ride his bike while Ray jogged behind him, hands hovering just in case.
This house held thirty years of our life. The paint colors Ray and I argued over. The pencil marks on the pantry wall where we’d measured Eddie’s height every birthday. The porch swing Ray insisted on hanging himself. And my son’s wife was standing in my living room, calculating its value like it was just another line item on a spreadsheet.
I dried my hands, pasted on a smile, and walked back into the dining room.
“Anyone want dessert?” I asked brightly. “I made peach cobbler.”
“Actually,” Moren said, glancing at her phone. “We should get going. Early morning tomorrow.”
Eddie nodded quickly, relief flickering across his face.
They left soon after. I stood at the front door and watched them walk to their car. Moren was already scrolling on her phone before she even reached the driveway. Eddie looked back once, gave me a small wave, and then they were gone.
The house felt emptier after they left than it had before they came.
Three weeks passed with no visit. No phone call. Two brief texts from Eddie—“Busy right now, Mom. Maybe next month”—and that was it.
I told myself not to chase. Pride has a way of wrapping itself around your hurt like bandages, keeping it from bleeding all over everything.
Then, out of nowhere, Eddie called.
“Hey, Mom. Moren and I are thinking about having a little cookout at our place this Saturday. Nothing fancy, just burgers and hanging out. You should come.”
I nearly dropped the dishtowel I was holding.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he said, and for a moment he sounded like himself again. “I know it’s been a while. Thought it would be nice.”
My heart lifted despite everything.
“I’d love to,” I said.
“Great. Saturday around two.”
When I hung up, I stood in my quiet kitchen and let myself smile like a fool. Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe things were getting better. Maybe Moren was finally warming up.
Mothers are experts at lying to themselves when the truth is too painful.
Their apartment complex sat near the highway, a cluster of beige buildings with small balconies and a community pool that always seemed a little too crowded. It was the kind of place young couples lived while they saved for something better.
I carried a big glass bowl of homemade potato salad and a bottle of wine up the outdoor stairs. The Florida sun beat down on the concrete, making the metal railing hot under my hand even in October.
Eddie opened the door with a genuine smile.
“Hey, Mom. Come on in.”
The apartment smelled like charcoal and grilled meat. He’d set up a tiny charcoal grill on the narrow balcony that overlooked the parking lot. A strand of cheap fairy lights hung along the railing, trying their best to make it festive.
Moren was in the small living room, setting out paper plates on a folding table. She glanced up when I walked in.
“Oh. Hey, Ruth,” she said. “You can put that on the counter.”
I set the potato salad down in the kitchen. That’s when I saw the shopping bag sitting half‑tucked behind the toaster. The logo on the front was from a high‑end shoe store in an upscale mall up in Fort Myers. A slim box peeked out from the top.
Before I could say anything, Eddie noticed my gaze and quickly moved the bag to the pantry.
“You want iced tea?” he asked too quickly.
“That’d be nice,” I said.
We went out to the balcony. Eddie flipped burgers while I sat in a folding chair, shading my eyes from the sun with my hand.
For a little while, it felt almost normal. He talked about a coworker who reminded him of his father—the way the man lined up the pens on his desk, the way he told corny jokes that somehow still got laughs.
“Your dad would’ve liked him,” I said softly.
“Yeah,” Eddie said. “He would’ve.”
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