“That’s a lot of responsibility.”
“She’s an incredible mother,” I said. “And her son… he’s special.”
“I’m sure she appreciates the help,” my mother replied.
She never said Anna’s name again.
Weeks later, I introduced them anyway. A small café. Anna arrived late, flustered, with her son Aaron holding her hand. My mother greeted her politely—without warmth.
She asked Aaron one question.
“What’s your favorite subject?”
“Art.”
She rolled her eyes and ignored him for the rest of the visit. When the bill came, she paid only for herself.
In the car, Anna said quietly, “She doesn’t like me.”
“She doesn’t know you,” I replied.
“She doesn’t want to.”
Two years later, I told my mother I’d proposed.
“If you marry her,” she said flatly, “don’t ever ask me for anything again. You’re choosing that life.”
I waited for doubt. It never came.
So I left.
Anna and I married simply—string lights, folding chairs, honest laughter. We moved into a small rental with sticky drawers and a lemon tree. Aaron painted his room green and left handprints on the wall.
One day at the grocery store, he looked up and asked, “Can we get the marshmallow cereal, Dad?”
He didn’t realize what he’d said. I did.
That night, I cried—not from loss, but because joy and grief finally made room for each other.
We built a quiet life. School runs. Night shifts. Cartoons on Saturdays. Mismatched mugs. Socks sliding across the living room floor.
My mother never called.
Then one evening, she did.
“So this is the life you chose.”
“It is.”
“I’ll come by tomorrow. I want to see what you gave everything up for.”
I cleaned—but I didn’t hide anything. The messy shoe rack stayed. The crayon marks stayed.
She arrived on time. Walked in without greeting me. Took one look around—and froze.
“This…” she whispered. “What is this?”
Her eyes landed on the faded green handprints outside Aaron’s room. Inside stood an old upright piano—worn, imperfect, one key stuck.
Aaron walked in, climbed onto the bench, and began to play.
Chopin. The same piece she’d forced me to practice until my hands ached.
“Where did he learn that?” she asked quietly.
“He asked,” I said. “So I taught him.”
Aaron handed her a drawing—our family on the porch. My mother was drawn in an upstairs window, surrounded by flowers.
“I didn’t know what kind you liked,” he said. “So I drew all of them.”
She took it carefully.
At the table, she said, “You could’ve been great, Jonathan.”
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