Mark seemed wonderful too. He brought her flowers, repaired her porch railing without being asked, and treated my sixteen-year-old daughter, Emma, kindly.
There was just one thing none of us understood.
He never stayed past 8:
00 p.m., which seemed strange for a fifty-four-year-old man who supposedly lived alone and answered to nobody.
Mark joined us for Sunday dinner almost every week, but around 7:30, he’d start checking his watch. By 7:55, his leather briefcase would already be in his hand.
His explanations changed constantly.
Once, he had to call an overseas client at exactly eight-thirty. Another Sunday, his neighbor supposedly needed help taking medication. The following week, a repairman was somehow coming to his house late at night.
Individually, the excuses sounded
possible.
Together, they sounded ridiculous.
Even stranger, after seven months of dating, Mom had never been invited inside his house.
Emma had also noticed twice that he drove west after dinner when he supposedly lived twenty-five minutes east.
We started wondering whether Mark had another woman—or even another family.
Mom refused to believe it.
Then, during her birthday dinner, Mark checked his watch just as she brought out the apple pie she’d made especially for him.
7:56.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I have to go.”
Mom’s smile disappeared.
