We met at a cozy, dimly lit bistro downtown—Hyacinth’s choice. She looked radiant, more at ease than I remembered. We exchanged small talk at first, mostly about work and the weather, but slowly, our conversation began to thaw the ice that had built up over years.
She laughed at one of my jokes. I asked her about her life—genuinely—and listened. For the first time, it felt like maybe we were finally… connecting. I couldn’t stop smiling.
Dinner was wonderful. She ordered the chef’s special; I had salmon. We even shared dessert, something she used to hate doing as a kid. I was ready to call it one of the best nights I’d had in a long time.
And then came the bill.
The waiter slid the check discreetly between us. I reached for it instinctively, but Hyacinth stopped me with a gentle touch on my hand. “No, let me,” she said with a smile.
I froze.
She opened the check, looked at it—then turned it toward me. “You should pay, Rufus,” she said, her tone shifting. “It’s the least you can do after everything you took from Mom.”
My heart dropped.
“What… what are you talking about?” I stammered, confused, blindsided.
She leaned in, her smile gone. “The house, the savings. You may not see it that way, but you married her when she was vulnerable. I think it’s time you gave something back.”
I sat there, stunned. Was this her idea of reconciliation? A guilt trip wrapped in a dinner invitation?
I paid, speechless.
As we walked out, she didn’t say much more. Just a casual “Thanks,” like we’d shared something pleasant. I nodded, still unsure what had just happened.
That night, I didn’t sleep.
Maybe this was closure. Maybe it was just another wall between us. But one thing was certain—I wasn’t the only one carrying old wounds.
