Mom looked at him.
“Richard. You don’t have to choose between taking care of your mother and loving me.”
EVELYN TURNED TOWARD GRACE AND STUDIED HER CAREFULLY.
“Are you the pretty lady my Richard keeps telling me about?”
Mom laughed through her tears.
“That’s me.”
A few weeks later, Sunday dinners moved to 5 p.m.
On Evelyn’s better days, Richard brought her along.
Chloe, still embarrassed about the “borrowed” leather tote, made herself the official keeper of the picture cards.
Mom managed to repair Evelyn’s old music box, and its soft melody played as I set the dinner table.
I had been completely certain Richard was lying.
And technically, he was.
But he wasn’t hiding another woman.
He was protecting the story of the one person who needed his love just as much as my mother did.
