Evelyn turned toward Grace and studied her carefully.
“Are you the pretty lady my Richard keeps telling me about?”
Mom laughed through her tears.
“That’s me.”
A few weeks later, Sunday dinners moved to 5 p.m.
On Evelyn’s better days, Richard brought her along.
Chloe, still embarrassed about the “borrowed” leather tote, appointed herself official keeper of the picture cards.
Mom managed to repair Evelyn’s old music box, and its soft melody played while I set the dinner table.
I had been so certain Richard was lying.
And technically, he was.
But he wasn’t hiding another woman.
He was protecting the story of the one person who needed his love just as much as my mother did.
