Laura always thought the night before meeting her son’s first serious girlfriend would feel like Christmas Eve—full of light anticipation and happy nerves. Instead, the house lay hushed and echoing, and she found herself cleaning for the third time, wiping invisible streaks from the granite countertop and wondering why she felt so restless.
Behind her, sock-soft footsteps padded into the kitchen. Ryan appeared in the doorway, hair still damp from a late shower, his old university sweatshirt hanging loose on his tall frame.
“Couldn’t sleep, Mom?” he asked, voice pitched low so as not to wake the dog.
“Not a wink,” she admitted, setting the cloth aside. “I keep replaying tomorrow in my head. What if I burn the roast or forget her name?”
Ryan laughed, the sound warm and reassuring. “Her name is Sophie—pretty hard to forget. And you never burn anything. Want ice cream?”
She raised an eyebrow. “It’s nearly midnight.”
“Which is exactly why we should do it,” he said, already raiding the freezer. He emerged with a pint of chocolate-fudge brownie.
They settled at the scarred oak table under the soft glow of the pendant light and passed the carton back and forth, two spoons clinking every so often. Between sweet mouthfuls, Ryan spoke of Sophie—how she loved indie films, rescued stray cats, and insisted Brussels sprouts tasted better with bacon. Laura noticed the gentle awe in his voice, the way he leaned forward as if sharing a sacred secret.
“I want her to be part of my world,” he confessed. “I’ve dated before, but this feels different.”
Laura’s heart swelled. Her independent boy, who rarely discussed feelings, was opening a door she thought might remain closed for years. She squeezed his hand. “She’s lucky to have you. And I can’t wait to meet her.”
When Ryan finally went upstairs, Laura rinsed the spoons, turned off the lights, and whispered a quick prayer: Let tomorrow be easy. Let them all belong.
The next afternoon the house smelled of rosemary chicken and bubbling potato gratin. On the stove, a small skillet sizzled with Sophie’s beloved Brussels sprouts. Laura had even set out the fancy linen napkins Ryan teased her about.
Doorbell chimes scattered her nerves. She smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her blouse and opened the door to find Sophie—petite, brown-eyed, carrying a modest bouquet of daisies she’d picked up on the way. The girl’s shy smile and polite greeting eased Laura’s worry at once.
Within minutes Sophie was rolling up her sleeves, helping decant gravy and praising the cheery yellow kitchen tiles. She knelt to scratch the family beagle behind the ears, laughing when he flopped over for a belly rub. Ryan, cheeks pink with pride, mouthed Told you so while retrieving crystal tumblers.
Dinner began like every mother’s wish: bright chatter, polite compliments, and genuine interest. Sophie even endured Laura’s slideshow of Ryan’s toddler photos—the inflatable-pool one earned a collective groan that turned into shared giggles. Everything felt effortless, as if this trio had always occupied the same orbit.
Then Sophie spotted the picture.
It sat on a shelf by the dining-room arch: Laura, Thomas, and Ryan on a windswept beach last summer, sunburnt shoulders pressed together. A common, joyful snapshot—until Sophie’s face blanched. She set her fork down with a tremble.
“Are you all right, dear?” Laura asked, half-rising.
Sophie opened her mouth twice before sound emerged. “That man—your husband— Thomas?” Her voice shook like a leaf caught in a storm.
Ryan chuckled, confused. “Yeah, that’s my dad. Shame he’s traveling tonight. Mom and I handle the social stuff.”
Eyes glistening, Sophie turned to Laura. “I know him. He—he’s been with my mother for years. He told us his name was Tom Harrison, said he was single but busy with work. He lives with us part-time. My mom… she’s pregnant.”
The room tilted. Laura felt the floor under her slippers but not the table beneath her hands; everything inside spun weightless. She thought of hotel receipts, weekend conferences, late-night showers where a hint of unfamiliar shampoo lingered.
Ryan stood, chair scraping. “This is some kind of mistake.”
Sophie pleaded, tears streaking her cheeks. “I wish it were. I had no idea he was married, let alone that he had a son in college. My mom would never—she believes he’s going to propose.”
Laura drew a long, quivering breath. Twenty years of marriage flickered before her: wedding vows under an autumn maple, hospital corridors where they cradled newborn Ryan, quiet coffee on Sunday mornings. All those memories now felt counterfeit.
“Where do you live, Sophie?” she asked, voice eerily calm.
Sophie sniffled. “Maple Drive, two miles away.”
“Get your coat, Ryan,” Laura said, already reaching for her keys.