Daniel’s face flushed.
“And you think you’re innocent?”
“No.”
That surprised him.
I continued.
“I should have told you that I had feelings for her before your father brought it up. I was trying to protect you, and I handled it badly.”
He looked away.
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“You’re my best friend.”
“I know.”
“She is my mother.”
“I know that too.”
He slammed his palm against the kitchen counter.
“Stop saying you know!”
His voice cracked.
I fell silent.
Daniel rubbed his face with both hands.
“My parents are getting divorced. My father is acting like a stranger. My mother is trying to rebuild her life. And now you’re telling me you want to date her?”
“I love her.”
He stared at me.
“You love her?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Long enough to know this isn’t a joke.”
He laughed bitterly.
“You’re twenty-eight. You could date anyone.”
“I don’t want anyone.”
“You don’t even hear how selfish that sounds.”
I had no defense.
He walked toward the door.
“If you care about me at all, stay away from her until I can figure out what I’m supposed to do with this.”
I wanted to tell him that Karen wasn’t a possession, that he couldn’t decide who she was allowed to love, and that the world did not stop being complicated simply because he wanted it to.
But I looked at his face and saw a man whose family was disappearing in front of him.
So I said, “Okay.”
He nodded once and left.
That afternoon, Karen called me.
“Daniel spoke to me.”
“I know.”
“He asked me to end things before they begin.”
My throat tightened.
“What did you tell him?”
“That I love him, and I love you, and I will not lie to either of you.”
I closed my eyes.
“Karen, I don’t want to destroy your relationship with your son.”
“Neither do I.”
“Maybe we should step back.”
Silence.
Then she said, “Maybe we should.”
We agreed to give Daniel space.
No secret meetings.
No romantic messages.
No pretending the situation was simple.
For the next three months, we barely spoke.
And I learned that doing the right thing could hurt almost as much as doing the wrong thing.
Karen Mercer Stops Asking Permission
While I stayed away, Karen built her bookstore.
She called it Second Chapter.
The name was printed above the red door in elegant white letters.
She painted the reading corner herself, hired two part-time employees, and arranged the shelves by hand. She contacted local authors, negotiated with suppliers, and learned more about bookkeeping in six weeks than Michael had learned about their household finances in twenty-two years.
Her sister sent me pictures of the opening.
Karen stood beneath the sign wearing a green dress, smiling as customers filled the shop.
