Chapter 13
Two years later, I met Anna.
Not dramatically.
Not at a gala.
Not in a boardroom.
At Mom’s physical therapy clinic.
She was helping her father practice steps after a stroke.
She wore sneakers, no makeup, and a sweatshirt with paint on the sleeve.
Mom liked her immediately.
That made me suspicious.
My judgment in women had not exactly been award-worthy.
Anna did not care who I was.
When I introduced myself, she said, “Good for you,” then went back to arguing with her father about using his walker correctly.
Mom laughed all the way home.
“She’s lovely.”
“You exchanged six sentences.”
“Five were enough.”
I ignored her.
Then saw Anna again the next week.
And the next.
Her father, Paul, was stubborn.
My mother admired him.
Soon they were sitting together after therapy, comparing knee pain like battle stories.
Anna and I started talking by the vending machine.
She was a public school art teacher.
Divorced.
Kind, but not soft in the way people confuse kindness with weakness.
When I told her about Victoria, she listened without performing shock.
Then she said, “So you learned expensive lace can still cover rot.”
I stared at her.
She sipped terrible vending machine coffee.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I asked her to dinner three weeks later.
She said yes.
Then added, “But if your mother hates me, we end it now.”
I laughed.
“She likes you more than me.”
“Smart woman.”
Dating after betrayal felt strange.
I noticed everything.
Tone.
Pauses.
How Anna spoke to waiters.
How she treated Mom.
How she handled disappointment.
She never made my mother feel like a burden.
She never made me feel like a prize.
Once, at dinner, Mom spilled water.
She froze.
Old shame flashed across her face.
Anna reached for napkins and said, “Good. The table was too dry.”
Mom laughed.
I fell in love quietly.
May you like
Carefully.
With eyes open.
