My mother when my father walked out

“This is Anna,” I said. “And this is Aaron.”

My mother stood, offered a polite handshake, a smile with no warmth. The babysitter had canceled, so Aaron came along. Anna explained. My mother acknowledged it without comment.

“You must be tired,” she said flatly.

“I am,” Anna admitted softly.

My mother asked Aaron one question.
“What subject do you like in school?”

“Art!” he said proudly.

She dismissed it with a look and never spoke to him again. When the bill arrived, she paid only for herself.

Later, Anna said quietly, “She doesn’t like me.”

“She doesn’t know you.”

“She doesn’t want to.”

Two years passed.

She called me to meet her at a piano showroom—one she’d taken me to as a child, insisting perfection could be trained if you listened closely enough to your mistakes.

I told her I had proposed.

She didn’t react at first.
“If you marry her,” she said finally, “don’t expect anything from me again. That’s the life you’re choosing.”