My mom hadn’t hummed in eleven years—not since Dad died. Then Richard came into her life, and suddenly she was wearing perfume, buying new clothes, and laughing again. I wanted to be happy for her, but one thing about him bothered me: every Sunday, he left at exactly 7:30.
Richard was 52 and had met Mom at a community gardening club. He brought flowers, fixed her porch railing, and treated her wonderfully. Still, his excuses for leaving early never seemed convincing. Sometimes it was a business call; other times, a neighbor or repairman supposedly needed him.
My daughter Chloe noticed too. “He runs on a Cinderella schedule,” she joked. I eventually asked Mom whether she had ever even seen Richard’s house. She admitted she hadn’t. When I warned her to be careful, she simply said, “Please let me have this. Even if it turns out badly, let me have the part where I still get to hope.”
