My mom had always been the kind of woman who gave everything she had to the people she loved.
She raised me mostly on her own, worked long hours, and somehow still managed to show up to every school play, every doctor’s appointment, every moment that mattered.
But ever since I moved out, I could feel a quiet loneliness growing around her — like a thin fog she kept trying to pretend she didn’t notice.
So when she told me she’d met someone, I felt this rush of hope for her — like maybe her life was opening up again.
His name was Aaron.
She talked about him with a warmth in her voice I hadn’t heard in years. She sounded lighter. Happier. Almost girlish sometimes. And whenever she said his name, her eyes sparkled.
She didn’t tell me much — my mom isn’t the type to gush about her private life, even to me. So all I knew was that he made her smile, treated her well, and seemed to care about her the way she deserved.
That was enough for me.
At least, it was supposed to be.
🕰️ The Man Who Wasn’t There
