My 72-Year-Old Mom’s Younger Boyfriend Always Left Family Dinner Before Dessert
My misgivings should have been dispelled by witnessing my mother laugh,
get dressed up, and fall in love once more after so many years of loneliness. Rather, every time Richard showed up for supper, one question remained unanswered.
It had been eleven years since my mother had hummed! Not since Dad passed away. On Sunday afternoon, however, she was standing in front of her bedroom mirror, putting on the pearl earrings her father had
given her for their 30th anniversary while humming an old Sinatra song.
I folded my arms and tried not to cry as I observed her from the doorway.
“Mom, you look beautiful!”
“Oh, stop,” she murmured, grinning and dismissing me. “It’s just dinner, Avery.”
Not since Dad passed away.
“You’re even wearing the red dress!”
“I’m allowed to wear the red dress.”
“You bought that red dress recently, and it’s already been out of the closet more than my winter coat!”
Mom’s chuckle was so pleasant that I nearly forgot why I had come upstairs in the first place. which was to snoop, to be honest.
“I’m allowed to wear the red dress.”
After eleven years of being by herself, my mom was now floating around the home like a shampoo commercial.
Richard was the name of the cause. He met her at the neighborhood gardening club, was 52 years old, and, as far as we knew, lived alone. He praised her tomato plants.
He was bringing her sunflowers in less than a month.
She was drifting through the home.
Without being asked, he fixed her porch railing in less than two months. He recalled that my fifteen-year-
old daughter Chloe enjoyed mint chocolate chip and that he would always bring her a pint.
I saw a version of Mom in a few of months that I had assumed we had lost with Dad. She resumed wearing perfume, purchased the red dress, and occasionally grinned like a teenager at her phone.
I wanted to be fond of him. I did, in fact.
Her porch railing had been restored by him.
I said, “So, what time is he coming?”
“Five. And he’ll need to leave by 7:30 p.m. again, so let’s eat by six.”
Halfway to the stairs, I stopped.
“Seven-thirty again?”
“Avery.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said it with your face.”
“What time is he coming?”
Chloe was laying the table downstairs with the nice china that Mom had only brought out for company. With the obstinate chin of her father and the cheekbones of her grandmother, my daughter had been
observing Richard lately like a cat eyeing a screen door.
Chloe said, “Cinderella’s coming to dinner,” while folding a napkin into a shape resembling a swan.
“Be nice.”
“I’m being nice. I’m just saying. The man runs on a Cinderella schedule.”
“Cinderella’s coming to dinner.”
“Chloe.”
She held up the twisted napkin swan and peered at it, saying, “What?! He does! Every Sunday, boom, 7:30 p.m., out the door like the pumpkin’s about to blow.” “I’m only half joking, by the way.”
She wasn’t wrong, so I shut my lips after opening it to defend him.
After six months of Sunday dinners, the man had never stayed until 7:30 p.m. He was always courteous
about it. had a purpose at all times. However, the explanations continued to change, as if a new hand were dealt each week.
I started to defend him.
I said, “Set out the water glasses,” instead.
“Deflection…”
I looked at my daughter.
Chloe whistled softly as Mom descended the stairs. Mom wondered if her lipstick was too much, swatted at her, and flushed like a schoolgirl. It wasn’t. It was flawless.
Compared to Christmas, she appeared ten years younger!
I looked at my daughter.
At precisely five o’clock in the evening, Richard showed up with a bottle of the sparkling grape juice Chloe preferred because she was too young for wine, along with a bouquet of daisies. That lovely gentlemen
asked my daughter about her history project, shook my hand, and planted a kiss on my mother’s face.
On paper, he was fantastic.
But he would leave at 7:29 p.m.
On paper, he was fantastic.
While Richard and Mom were in the living room, Chloe grabbed my attention across the kitchen, but she remained silent. She just arched one eyebrow so high it almost touched her hairline, tapped her wrist, and
mouthed the words seven-three-zero.
A tiny, tight knot had begun to tug someplace in my chest, so I turned back to the stove and stirred the gravy that didn’t need stirring.
I glanced across the kitchen at Chloe.
On the Sunday following Chloe’s little Cinderella joke, I observed Richard through a two-way mirror like a lady examining a suspect. In between slices, he was checking his watch while expertly cutting the roast.
I slid the potatoes across and said, “Big plans tonight, Richard?”
“Oh, nothing exciting. I’ve got a client in Singapore, believe it or not. Eight o’clock call.”
Halfway to her mouth, Chloe’s fork stopped.
Like a lady examining a suspect, I observed Richard.
“Singapore? On a Sunday?”
“Markets never sleep, kiddo.”
“Cool,” my daughter remarked. “Neither do plumbers, apparently.”
I almost choked on my water. Richard had hurried out two weeks prior, saying a plumber would be at his
house at nine o’clock. At that one, even Mom had blinked.
Although Richard dismissed it with a joke, there was a rigidity around his eyes that wasn’t present when he first started visiting.
I almost choked on my water.
He had his leather briefcase by 7:25 p.m. the following Sunday. It was the neighbor this time.
“Mr. Mendez can’t get his blood pressure pills open. Arthritis. I told him I’d swing by.”
“That’s so sweet of you,” Mom glowingly remarked.
I repeated, “So sweet,” and Chloe gave me a bruising kick beneath the table.
“I told him I’d swing by.”
By 7:30 p.m., Richard had the leather satchel tucked under his arm as though it contained state secrets, and the porch light behind him was clicking on. Each and every Sunday. similar to clockwork. We were unable to
see, like a man on a leash.
I trapped Mom by the sink after doing the dishes.
“Mom, can I ask you something without you getting mad?”
“That’s usually a great start, Avery.”
Mom was stuck at the sink because of me.
“Six months you’ve been dating this man. Have you been inside his house? Even once? Have you seen his kitchen? His couch? His mailbox?”
She used more force than the dishes needed to turn on the faucet.
“He’s private.”
“He’s evasive.”
“There’s a difference.”
“Is there? Because Chloe says twice now she’s watched him turn south after dinner, and he supposedly lives
20 minutes north.”
Mom’s shoulders tightened. With a sharp little clink, she put the plate down.
“He’s evasive.”
“I trust him, Avery.”
“Mom, I want to trust him too. I want that for you. But a grown man with no wife, no kids, no roommate, and no reason to be anywhere at 7:30 p.m. on a Sunday…”
“Maybe he has reasons I don’t need to know yet.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
I noticed something beneath the defensiveness when she looked at me at that moment. Mom was also aware of it. She simply wasn’t prepared.
“That’s exactly the problem.”
“Please,” she uttered softly. “Let me have this. Even if it turns out badly, let me have the part where I still get to hope.”
I had no idea how to respond to that. I dried a plate as a result.
Later, Chloe sat with her knees pulled up on the top step of the porch. I took a seat next to her.
“Grandma knows something’s up. She’s just scared.”
“Let me have this.”
“Chloe. Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”
“I’m not thinking anything.”
“You’re always thinking something. Your face has a thinking setting, and it’s currently on.”
My kid gave me a small smile.
“Richard has another woman. Doesn’t he?”
“We don’t know that.”
“Or another family. A whole secret family in a house with a plumber that only works at night.”
“Chloe.”
“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”
“What? I’m just saying what everyone is thinking. Grandma is thinking so, too. She just won’t say it because if she does, it might be true.”
I put my arm around her shoulders.
“Her birthday is next Sunday,” I said. “I’m asking you, as your mother and as a coward, to please just let us get through dessert. We’ll deal with Richard afterwards.”
Chloe was silent for a while. For so long that I believed I might have won.
“We’ll deal with Richard afterwards.”
Then she stated calmly, “I’m tired of watching Grandma be lied to.”
“Chloe.”
“I love her too, Mom. That’s all I’m saying.”
As if I were the adolescent, she got up, kissed the top of my head, and entered.
I continued to sit on the porch and gaze at the street where Richard’s taillights consistently vanished.
“I’m tired of watching Grandma be lied to.”
For the third time, Mom fiddled with her hair in the hallway mirror. She was clearly anxious. She wanted the evening to be flawless because it was her 72nd birthday.
“You look gorgeous,” I said.
“I look like a woman who’s trying too hard.”
Chloe said, “Grandma, you look like a woman who’s trying just enough,” from the couch. “There’s a difference.”
She was clearly anxious.
At six o’clock in the evening, the doorbell rang.
With a wrapped gift in one hand, a dozen roses in the other, and his leather tote tucked under his arm as though it were surgically attached, Richard stood there.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart!”
Mom brightened. To be honest, it was difficult to remain suspicious when she gave him that kind of gaze.
Richard held a dozen roses as he stood there.
Dinner was a success.
At the gardening club, Richard related a story about how he sliced a zucchini into a salad that almost killed
a man’s taste buds because he thought it was a cucumber. Mom snorted, something she hadn’t done since Dad was alive, since she laughed so hard.
She then produced the pie.
“Chocolate pie,” she declared. “I made it because my boyfriend said it was his favorite.”
Richard’s face took on a complex expression. Thank you. guilty. imprisoned.
Mom snorted with laughter.
He looked at his timepiece.
7:26 p.m.
“Grace, I am so sorry, sweetheart. I have to go.”
There was silence in the room. Mom’s smile didn’t instantly vanish. It gradually dimmed, as though someone were gradually lowering a dimmer.
“Can’t you stay for 10 minutes? It’s my birthday, Richard.”
“I really can’t. I’m so sorry.”
“I have to go.”
Before anyone could stop him, he bent down, kissed her cheek, picked up the tote, and left. The pie appeared to be a witness to a crime as it rested on the table.
Mom took a slow seat. She folded her hands in her lap, picked up her fork, and put it back down.
“Mom, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, honey.”
She wasn’t doing well. She was aware that I knew she wasn’t.
“Mom, are you okay?”
Through the glass, Chloe observed Richard.
My daughter suddenly got to her feet a moment later. “I need to run out. I’ll be right back,” she muttered.
“Chloe, wait, it’s dark out.”
“Don’t worry, Mom.”
The door banged shut. I gazed at it, then at my mother, and last at the unfinished pie.
“Well,” Mom responded, laughing a bit but brittlely. “That’s one way to end a birthday.”
“He’s an idiot.”
“Avery.”
“I need to run out.”
“He is! Whatever he’s hiding, he’s an idiot for hiding it tonight.”
In order to occupy my hands, I began clearing plates. Ten minutes went by. Fifteen. Twenty. I looked out the window, but I saw nothing.
“Do you think I should call her?”
Mom raised her gaze.
“Maybe give it a little more time. She probably needed to clear her head. She’ll be back.”
“Do you think I should call her?”
Chewing the inside of my cheek, I paced from the kitchen to the living room and back. Before leaving, my daughter gave me that look. The expression she gets just before she does something about which I will be
lecturing her for a week.
Footsteps pounded on the porch steps about forty minutes after her departure.
The door sprang open, revealing Chloe standing in the frame with tears streaming down her cheeks and labored breathing. Richard’s leather satchel was pressed up against her chest.
I paced.
“Chloe?”
My daughter refused to look me in the eye.
“Chloe, where did you get that?”
She gave a headshake.
Her voice broke as she said, “Don’t ask how I got it.” “You need to see what he hides in here. And why he
never stays past 7:30 p.m.”
She passed me and placed the tote next to the birthday pie on the dining room table.
Mom slowly got up from her seat.
“Where did you get that?”
“Chloe, honey, whatever’s in there, maybe we should…”
My daughter exclaimed, “Grandma, look,” as she opened it.
Mom reached for the bag, her hands shaking. I moved in closer, expecting to see lipstick, hotel receipts, or a picture of another woman. Basically, anything unsightly.
The tote collapsed.
Mom’s hand shot to her lips.
“Oh, my God!”
Mom’s hands were shaking.
I peered inside.
There were antique family photos with soft edges. A small wooden music box with faded paint. A pile of laminated cards featuring large print and images of commonplace objects, such as a spoon, a comb, and a
happy face with the caption “son.”
And another laminated card with meticulous penmanship on top.
“My name is Evelyn. Richard is my son. I am safe with him.”
I peered inside.
Chloe used the back of her hand to wipe her face.
“Grandma, that’s not even the worst part. I saw who he takes this to.”
My daughter began speaking quickly after wiping her nose on her sleeve.
“I asked Cindy, my best friend’s sister, to come wait outside so we could follow Richard’s car. He drove
south to that memory care facility. He left the tote on the passenger seat and ran inside. The door wasn’t even locked.”
“I saw who he takes this to.”
“I’ll give it back, I swear. I saw an aide wave him in, as if he lives there. There’s a cot, Mom. A folded cot next to a hospital bed,” Chloe replied as soon as she noticed my worry.
The laminated card was flush against Grace’s chest.
“Evelyn,” she muttered. “He’s mentioned she’s his mother, but didn’t tell me more.”
Still perplexed, I sat down firmly.
Grace reached for her coat.
“I’ll give it back.”
“Avery, drive. Now. And don’t lecture me about seatbelts; I’ll put it on.”
We discovered Richard in a little room, reading aloud from a picture card as if it were a lifeline while grasping the hand of a petite woman. He went the color of paper when he looked up and spotted us.
“Grace, please! I was going to tell you! My last partner left when she found out. I couldn’t. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Grace ignored his embarrassment and took a seat on the bed’s edge.
Richard was in a tiny room.
“My mom is 86 and has dementia. It gets really bad after dark. She becomes disoriented, and the only way to calm her down is for me to be right here. I’ve been sleeping here for months. That’s why you’ve never
seen my house. There’s barely a house to see.”
After all those justifications, I realized that the softest response had been the 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 cocked her head, examining Grace in the same manner that one might examine a bird perched on a
ledge.
“Are you the pretty lady my Richard keeps telling me about?”
Grace nodded, sobbed, and laughed.
“That’s me.”
Grace nodded, sobbed, and laughed.
Sunday dinners were shifted to 5 p.m. a few weeks later.
When Evelyn’s good days coincided, Richard brought her. Chloe designated herself as the goalkeeper of the image cards, still feeling awkward about the “borrowed” briefcase.
The antique music box was fixed by Mom. As I was setting the table, it plinked forth something slow and lovely.
I had a strong suspicion that Richard was lying. And he was, but I discovered that he was lying about the one person who was equally deserving of his affection as my mother was.
