We sat across from each other in the dimly lit restaurant, the clink of silverware and murmur of other diners fading into the background. My mother’s eyes searched mine, looking for something—approval, understanding, maybe even doubt.
“So,” she asked, voice steady but cold, “Is this important?”
“I’m seeing someone. Her name is Anna. She’s a nurse.”
A flicker of approval softened her face. “Good. Her parents?”
“Both alive. Her mother’s a teacher. Her father’s a doctor.”
She gave a small, polite smile. Then I added, “She’s also a single mother. Her son is seven.”
The air shifted. Her tone cooled. “That’s a lot of responsibility.”
“She’s an incredible mother,” I told her. “And her son… he’s special.”
“I’m sure she appreciates the help,” she replied, dismissing the subject with a glance.
That was the last time she mentioned Anna’s name.
Weeks later, I decided to introduce them anyway. We met at a small café, a place with chipped paint and creaky chairs—nothing fancy, but comfortable enough for a first meeting.
Anna arrived flustered, her son Aaron clutching her hand tightly. His wide eyes darted around as if unsure where to look.
My mother greeted them politely, but the warmth I’d hoped for was absent.
She asked Aaron one question: “What’s your favorite subject?”
“Art,” he answered shyly.
She rolled her eyes and ignored him for the rest of the visit, barely acknowledging Anna beyond forced pleasantries.
When the bill came, she paid only for herself and left the café without another word.
In the car afterward, Anna whispered, “She doesn’t like me.”
“She doesn’t know you,” I said quietly.
“She doesn’t want to.”
