At 53, Mom started dating again and I’d never seen her happier. Then she invited Marcus to dinner. I opened the door and knew his face from 11 years earlier. I smiled through dinner, waited until he left, then told Mom there was something about the man she’d fallen for that she needed to know first.
Mom changed her earrings three times before Marcus arrived.
There was something about the man she’d fallen for that she needed to know first.
“The gold ones,” I said from the kitchen.
“You said the silver ones.”
“That was two earrings ago!”
Mom appeared in the doorway holding a different pair against her neck.
“These?”
“Mom, he’s coming for dinner, not conducting a jewelry inspection.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Mom, he’s coming for dinner, not conducting a jewelry inspection.”
At 53, my mother was nervous about a man.
“Too much?” she asked.
“Which ones do you actually want to wear?”
She glanced at the gold earrings she’d abandoned on the counter.
I picked them up and held them out.
“Then wear those.”
At 53, my mother was nervous about a man.
She rolled her eyes.
“When did you become my mother, Jean?”
“Around your third outfit change.”
Her laugh was still in the room when the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it.”
“Wait.” Mom caught my arm. “Be nice.”
“I’m always nice, Mom.”
“When did you become my mother, Jean?”
“You once asked my dentist whether he had a personality outside of teeth.”
“He brought up plaque during lunch.”
The bell rang again.
Mom shoved me toward the door.
“Go!”
I was still smiling when I opened it.
Then I saw the man standing on the porch.
I was still smiling when I opened it.
He was older.
His hair had gone mostly gray at the temples, and there were deeper lines around his eyes.
But I knew that face.
Marcus’s polite smile faltered too.
He looked from me to Mom, then back again.
“Jeannie? Ella’s Jean?”
My hand tightened around the doorknob.
“Marcus.”
His hair had gone mostly gray at the temples, and there were deeper lines around his eyes.
Mom appeared behind me.
“Wait. You two know each other?”
Marcus looked at me for another second before lifting the bottle of wine he’d brought.
“Jeannie worked for me years ago.”
Mom laughed in disbelief.
“You’re kidding.”
“Small world,” Marcus said as he walked past me.
“Wait. You two know each other?”
And with him came a memory I hadn’t thought about in years.
A bookstore.
A woman I’d never forgotten.
And one sentence Marcus used to say that had quietly changed my life.
***
Mom had spent most of her adult life making sure I never noticed what she went without.
With him came a memory I hadn’t thought about in years.
My father left when I was little.
After that, she became everything.
She picked up extra shifts but somehow still appeared at school concerts with five minutes to spare.
Once, when I was 13, I found an unopened pair of winter boots in her closet.
She picked up extra shifts but somehow still appeared at school concerts with five minutes to spare.
“Why haven’t you worn these, Mom?”
“They’re uncomfortable, dear.”
Months later, I realized she’d returned them.
That same week, I’d gotten the art supplies I’d been begging for.
That was how she loved me.
When I graduated from college and finally had a good job, I started pushing back.
That same week, I’d gotten the art supplies I’d been begging for.
“Take the trip.”
“That’s ridiculous money, Jean.”
“Then buy the dress, Mom.”
“I have dresses, dear.”
“Those are archaeological artifacts.”
She traveled with friends.
Started painting again.
Joined a community volunteer group.
Then one evening, she called me and casually mentioned a man named Marcus.
“That’s ridiculous money, Jean.”
Within weeks, his name began lighting up her phone almost as often as mine.
One night Mom admitted, laughing, “He makes me feel 25 again.”
I told her I couldn’t wait to meet him.
I meant it.
Until I opened that door.
I told her I couldn’t wait to meet him.
***
Marcus was attentive without hovering.
When Mom coughed after swallowing too quickly, he slid her water closer without interrupting her story.
He remembered she hated mushrooms and quietly moved the serving dish away from her.
“So,” Mom said, pointing her fork at him, “…tell Jean about the tomatoes.”
He remembered she hated mushrooms and quietly moved the serving dish away from her.
Marcus groaned. “Absolutely not.”
“You should see them, Jean.”
“They’re recovering, Ella.”
“They’re leaning sideways.”
“Toward sunlight,” he corrected.
Mom shook her head. “You’re still checking on them tonight, aren’t you?”
Marcus shrugged. “They’re unsupervised. I finally got ours to stop collapsing.”
My fork stopped halfway to my mouth.
Ours.
“You’re still checking on them tonight, aren’t you?”
“My wife used to grow tomatoes,” he added. “She made it look insultingly easy.”
I looked at Mom.
She smiled.
“Marcus inherited her confidence.”
“Unfortunately, not her competence,” he said.
They laughed.
I didn’t.
***
Back then, I worked part-time at a little bookstore downtown.
Marcus was my manager.
“Marcus inherited her confidence.”
I was also dating a man named Tyler.
If you’d asked me then, I would’ve told you Tyler was protective.
He picked restaurants because I “took forever.”
Chose movies because I “always picked weird ones.”
Corrected my clothes before parties.
Called three times if I didn’t answer once.
If you’d asked me then, I would’ve told you Tyler was protective.
I simply got used to saying:
“Whatever you want.”
One afternoon, Marcus was rearranging the front display.
“Which one?”
He held up two books.
I shrugged.
“Whatever.”
He didn’t move.
“Which one, Jeannie?”
“Either.”
“I didn’t ask which one wouldn’t upset civilization.”
I laughed.
I simply got used to saying: “Whatever you want.”
He held them up again.
“What do you want?”
“The blue one.”
“Great!”
He put it in the window.
That should’ve been nothing.
Except Marcus kept doing it.
Coffee order.
Work schedule.
Display signs.
Music.
“What do you think?”
“What do you want?”
“Which do you prefer?”
Tiny questions.
That should’ve been nothing. Except Marcus kept doing it.
Questions I slowly realized almost nobody was asking me.
One evening, Tyler came into the store and criticized a sweater I was wearing.
I immediately apologized.
Marcus was shelving books nearby.
He didn’t look at Tyler.
He looked at me and asked, “Do you like the sweater, Jean?”
One evening, Tyler came into the store and criticized a sweater I was wearing.
Tyler laughed.
“Apparently somebody has to.”
I looked down at myself.
“Yeah,” I said. “I do.”
Tyler and I broke up three months later.
But there was someone else from those years I remembered even more clearly.
Marcus’s wife.
She drew ridiculous cartoons on Marcus’s lunch bags.
There was someone else from those years I remembered even more clearly.
He taped his favorites beside the register.
Every Thursday, Marcus left at exactly five.
“Regional meeting,” someone teased once.
Marcus grabbed his coat.
“Dinner with my wife.”
“The meeting’s important, Marcus.”
“They’ll survive.”
Then one Thursday, he didn’t leave.
He sat in his office staring at his phone.
Every Thursday, Marcus left at exactly five.
The next week, he barely spoke.
A month later, Marcus left the bookstore completely.
His wife was sick.
He was going home to care for her.
I never saw him again.
Eventually, I heard she’d died.
***
I couldn’t stop wondering whether Mom understood what she was stepping into.
I never saw him again. Eventually, I heard she’d died.
Marcus finally left just after nine.
Mom stood at the door smiling while his car backed out of the driveway.
Then she closed it and turned toward me.
“Well?”
I looked through the window until Marcus’s taillights disappeared.
Her smile faded when she saw my face.
I looked through the window until Marcus’s taillights disappeared.
“Mom, before you get any closer to him, there’s something you need to know.”
I told her about the bookstore and Marcus, his wife, and the way that marriage seemed so deeply woven into who he was.
Mom listened without interrupting.
“Mom, before you get any closer to him, there’s something you need to know.”
Finally, I said the thing that had been sitting in my chest all evening.
“You’ve spent your whole life coming second, Mom.”
Her eyebrows drew together.
“To bills. To work. To Dad when he was still around. To me. I don’t want you spending the rest of your life competing with someone who isn’t even here.”
“You’ve spent your whole life coming second, Mom.”
Suddenly, Mom walked into the hallway and took her coat from the hook.
“Put your shoes on, Jean.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
She grabbed her keys.
“I could explain this, but you’d still think I’m making excuses for him. There’s something you need to see.”
“I could explain this, but you’d still think I’m making excuses for him.”
***
Mom drove 15 minutes without explaining anything.
“Are you kidnapping me?”
“Yes.”
“Good to know.”
“You ask too many questions.”
“You raised me, Mom.”
That earned a smile, but she kept driving.
We turned into a community garden tucked behind a small recreation center.
That earned a smile, but she kept driving.
Most of the plots were dark, but strings of warm lights ran along the main path.
Then I saw Marcus.
He was kneeling beside a tomato plant, tying one of its stems to a wooden stake.
Mom lowered her window.
“You’re strangling it.”
Marcus looked up, surprised.
“I’m supporting it.”
He was kneeling beside a tomato plant, tying one of its stems to a wooden stake.
“It’s leaning away from you.”
“Ungrateful plant!” he teasingly accused.
I stared at Mom.
“You knew he’d be here?”
“I knew he’d probably be here.”
She parked.
Marcus brushed dirt from his knees as we approached.
His face softened the second he saw me.
“Ah.”
“I knew he’d probably be here.”
I folded my arms.
“That’s reassuring.”
Mom touched my elbow.
“Jean, look around.”
Several small plaques marked the plots. Some carried names. Others had dates.
Marcus followed my gaze.
“This section belongs to a bereavement group.”
“Bereavement group?” I breathed.
He nodded toward his tomatoes.
Several small plaques marked the plots. Some carried names. Others had dates.
“My wife grew them every summer. After she died, I couldn’t even look at one without thinking about her.”
He drew in a sharp breath.
“When I joined the group, they told us to plant something we’d have to keep alive long enough to see another season.”
“My wife grew them every summer. After she died, I couldn’t even look at one without thinking about her.”
“And you chose tomatoes?” I asked.
“Arrogance.” Mom snorted. “He killed two batches.”
“One and a half.”
“Two.”
Marcus sighed. “Your mother’s very supportive.”
I looked at her.
“You knew about his wife?”
“Of course I knew.”
“How much?”
Mom slipped her hands into her coat pockets.
“You knew about his wife?”
“Enough to know I would’ve liked her.”
That stopped me.
All evening I’d thought Mom was too infatuated to see what I saw.
She’d seen more.
***
Marcus stepped closer, but left space between us.
I looked directly at him.
“Do you still love her?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still love her?”
Marcus glanced toward the crooked tomato plant.
“She’s dead, Jeannie. Not erased.”
Then he looked at Mom.
“Loving your mother didn’t require me to stop loving the woman who taught me how.”
“What does that even mean?”
Marcus rubbed dirt from his thumb.
“Loving your mother didn’t require me to stop loving the woman who taught me how.”
“You remember how I used to ask what you wanted at the bookstore?”
I nodded.
He smiled faintly.
“That wasn’t originally my wisdom.”
I froze.
“My wife used to get furious with me because I planned everything. Restaurants, vacations, weekends. I thought taking care of somebody meant handling things for them.”
“My wife used to get furious with me because I planned everything.”
Mom murmured, “That sounds familiar.”
Marcus ignored her.
“One night my wife finally said, ‘Marcus, stop loving me like a project. Ask.’ Years later, I watched you say ‘whatever’ to every question anyone asked you. I recognized it.”
I stared at him.
“Marcus, stop loving me like a project. Ask.”
The habit I’d remembered as Marcus saving some disappearing part of me hadn’t begun with him.
It had traveled through someone I’d been afraid Mom could never compete with.
I turned to her.
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“That he still loves her?”
I nodded.
Mom considered that.
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Jean, I raised you by myself for most of my adult life. Do you really think I’d trust a man whose answer to loss was pretending somebody never mattered?”
I looked away.
“I’m not dating the man he was before her.” Mom’s eyes went to Marcus. “I’m dating the man he became.”
“I’m not dating the man he was before her.”
Marcus cleared his throat.
“This is becoming alarmingly positive.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
Then Mom took my hand.
“I know why you were worried.”
“I thought I was protecting you, Mom.”
“I know, sweetheart.” She squeezed my fingers. “You’ve been doing a lot of that lately.”
“I know why you were worried.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“The trips you keep trying to buy me. The classes. The clothes. Pushing me to date.”
“I just want you to have things after everything you gave up.”
“I know. But you don’t owe me a happy ending, Jean.”
“I just want you to have things after everything you gave up.”
For years, I’d been trying to balance a ledger Mom had never opened.
Every sacrifice.
Every extra shift.
Every pair of boots returned so I could have something instead.
“You gave up so much for me, Mom.”
“And I’d do it again.” She smiled. “But my life isn’t your debt.”
“You gave up so much for me, Mom.”
Marcus wisely became fascinated by his tomatoes.
Mom bumped my shoulder.
“And for the record, I’m not coming second.”
“No?”
“No. Marcus had a life before me. So did I.”
She glanced at him.
“We’re meeting in the middle, that’s all.”
Marcus suddenly brightened.
“Speaking of accomplishments…”
“Marcus had a life before me. So did I.”
He carefully twisted a tiny tomato from the vine and presented it to Mom.
It was small, crooked, and mostly orange.
Mom stared at it.
“That’s pathetic.”
“I raised that.”
“You interfered with nature until it surrendered, Marcus.”
“I don’t need this hostility.”
I laughed so hard I had to wipe my eyes.
“You interfered with nature until it surrendered, Marcus.”
Marcus picked up a small hand shovel and tossed it toward me.
I barely caught it.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
He pointed to an empty strip of soil beside Mom’s volunteer plot.
“Plant something.”
“What?”
“Something you’d like to see later.”
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
I looked at the empty ground.
Mom was already kneeling beside it.
“Anything?”
“Within reason,” Marcus said. “Ella vetoed my watermelon proposal.”
“You had six square feet.”
“Dream killer.”
Mom handed me a packet of seeds from the gardening box.
I read the label.
“Will these survive neglect?”
Mom handed me a packet of seeds from the gardening box.
“Plastic survives neglect,” Marcus said.
Mom nudged him aside.
“Don’t listen to him. He murdered basil.”
“Allegedly!”
I crouched beside her.
For once, I didn’t think about what Mom had sacrificed 20 years ago.
Marcus wasn’t staring at what he’d lost 11 years ago.
For once, I didn’t think about what Mom had sacrificed 20 years ago.
And Mom wasn’t waiting for permission to enjoy whatever years came next.
I pressed one seed into the dark soil.
Mom covered another beside mine.
Marcus immediately started explaining how much water they needed.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“No.”
Mom laughed. “At least he’s learning.”
“Are you sure?”
I looked at the two of them, then down at the little patch of earth beneath my hand.
Nothing was growing there yet.
That didn’t make it empty.
It just meant something could still go there.
So I planted another seed.
It just meant something could still go there.
