My mother stood, offered her hand, and smiled without warmth. “You must be exhausted, Anna.” “I am,” Anna laughed softly. “It’s been one of those days.”
We sat. My mother asked Aaron one question: “What’s your favorite subject in school?”
“Art class,” he said. She rolled her eyes and ignored him for the rest of the visit. When the check came, she paid only for herself.
In the car, Anna looked at me. “She doesn’t like me, Jon.” “She doesn’t know you, love.” “Maybe. But it’s clear she doesn’t want to.”
Two years later, I met my mother at the piano showroom uptown. She used to take me there as a child, saying the acoustics were “clean enough to hear your mistakes.”
She called it her favorite place to “imagine legacy.”
“So, Jonathan,” she said, running her fingers along a grand piano, “is this going somewhere, or are we wasting time?” “I asked Anna to marry me.”
Her hand froze midair, then dropped.
“I see.”
“She said yes.”
“Well, then let me be clear. If you marry her, don’t ever ask me for anything again. You’re choosing that life, Jonathan.”
Her face was unreadable. She let me go. And so, I left.
