That was true.
She dried her hands.
“Do you know what the worst thing about losing your father was?”
I waited.
“Everyone treated grief like the last chapter.”
“As if because one love ended, wanting another one would somehow be embarrassing.”
She looked toward the living room.
“I spent eleven years not expecting anything.”
“Then Adrian came along.”
“I laugh again.”
“I buy ridiculous lipstick.”
“I have somebody who asks whether my tomatoes survived the heat.”
Her eyes filled.
“And yes, Sophie, maybe he is hiding something.”
My chest tightened.
She continued:
“Maybe I’ll regret trusting him.”
“But please don’t make me regret hoping before I even know what I’m afraid of.”
I did not have an answer.
So I hugged her.
Later that night, Claire and I sat on Mom’s front steps.
She whispered:
“Grandma knows.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think Adrian has another woman?”
“I don’t know.”
“A wife?”
“Claire.”
“A secret family?”
“Please stop building entire television seasons.”
She pulled her knees against her chest.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“I think he’s lying.”
“Yes.”
That was the first time I admitted it aloud.
Claire looked toward the street.
“About what?”
“I don’t know.”
She became quiet.
Then:
“Grandma’s birthday is next Sunday.”
“I know.”
“She’s making chocolate pie.”
“I know.”
“Adrian’s favorite.”
“I know.”
Claire looked at me.
“If he leaves at seven-thirty on her birthday too, that’s messed up.”
“I agree.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Nothing.”
She frowned.
“Mom.”
“Nothing that night.”
“Your grandmother deserves one birthday where nobody turns dinner into an interrogation.”
