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He can’t be much older than me, and beautiful.
That poor, poor man.
When she doesn’t bother to introduce us, I give him a sympathetic wave. He flashes me a smile before getting back to his work.
“Good to see you too, mother. Where’s David? Your husband.”
“Away on business.” She sips from her wine glass.
“Starting early, I see.”
This earns me her signature glare. “Don’t start, Bethany Rose.”
Contorting her perfectly made-up face, she tucks a blonde strand behind her ear. I can admit my mother is beautiful even if her face is frozen in place. It’s not from Botox injections or fillers. Nothing like that. She never shows emotion to have fine lines and wrinkles.
Her powder blue pantsuit is tailored perfectly to her slim frame. She’s always looked like this. Even after giving birth to two children, which she reminded me three days after I gave birth to Hannah. I was nursing a newborn, wearing something resembling an adult diaper. My hair was greasy, my feet were swollen, and I still looked nine months pregnant. So, in other words, I looked like someone who just had a baby. But my mother chose that moment to ask when I could start working out again or I’d always havethat pouch.
“Would you like a glass?” she asks, refilling her own.
“No. I’m driving, and I need to get home to the girls.”
She’s still transfixed on what the chef is doing when she asks, “How are the children?”
Cold.
Unfeeling.
That’s my mother.
“Thechildrenare fine.”
“Good. We should go into the dining room.” Finally meeting my eyes, she tilts her head. She’s scrutinizing me, and I suddenly feel like I’m under an x-ray.
When she runs manicured fingers through the ends of my hair, I know it’s a touch that should be affectionate coming from a mother, but the act rings hollow.
I can’t shake the feeling she’s up to something.
“Why am I here?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she walks away and beckons me with a tilt of her chin.
I suppose I’m just doing as I’m told today.
I smooth down my navy summer dress and follow.
The dining room screams money. It even smells of it. There are twenty chairs around a table that only ever sits two. It’s lonely here.
But the table is meticulously set. The cutlery is polished. The marble is without a scratch despite it being older than me.
It’s none of those things that make my heart drop into my stomach.
It’s the people sitting at the table that make me want to run in the opposite direction.
My footsteps halt as the swinging door crashes into my back, pushing me further into the room.
Familiar eyes meet mine.
My blood cools, the music dims, and the betrayal is like a knife straight to the chest.
