Neither of us was rich.
We split bills, cooked together, and stayed up too late talking about nothing.
His mother, Diane, visited often. Too often, I sometimes thought, but I never said so out loud.
She had raised Marcus alone after his father died, and I understood the closeness. I told myself her chilliness toward me would thaw.
The Sunday before everything changed, Diane came for dinner. I made roasted chicken, the recipe she had once said her son loved.
She poked at the meat with her fork and smiled thinly.
“Elena, remind me again, what did your father do for work?”
“He was a mechanic,” I said. “He passed away when I was 15.”
“Ah. And your mother?”
“She cleans offices. She still does.”
Diane nodded slowly, like she was filing something away.
