Then six months ago, she called me.
Something in her voice made me sit down.
“Mom… I met somebody.”
Now that somebody was standing on my porch.
I opened the door.
Graham was handsome in an almost annoyingly effortless way.
For one ugly second, a thought slipped into my head.
Please don’t let this be some joke.
I hated myself for thinking it.
Graham held out a bottle of wine.
“Mercy?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Graham.”
Before I could answer, Marissa appeared behind me.
“Mari,” Graham said, smiling.
His entire face brightened when he saw her.
“Your mom actually let you bring dessert?”
Marissa rolled her eyes.
“I made it.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
She smacked his arm.
He laughed.
Dinner went better than I’d hoped.
Graham asked about Henry.
He listened while I explained how Marissa and I had managed before Henry came along.
He knew which parts of the lasagna Marissa disliked.
He refilled her water without interrupting her.
At one point, Marissa started telling me about their disastrous weekend at a cabin.
Graham pulled out his phone.
“No,” she warned him.
“Oh, yes.”
He showed me a photo.
Marissa stood beside a dead campfire, hair blowing across her face, laughing with her eyes nearly closed.
Her birthmark was completely visible.
No careful angle.
No flattering lighting.
Nothing hidden.
I looked at my daughter.
Years ago, she would have grabbed the phone.
