So I did. I told him about my teaching career, about the students who’d kept me sane during Robert’s long illness. About Brandon’s childhood and the fierce pride I’d felt watching him excel at everything he tried. About the quiet satisfaction of a marriage that wasn’t passionate but was steady and kind and comfortable.
And then, because something about Theo made me feel safe enough to be honest, I told him about the loneliness after Robert’s death. About feeling invisible in my own son’s life, like I’d served my purpose and was now just taking up space. About the gradual realization that I’d become more of an obligation than a person to the child I’d raised.
“Today wasn’t an aberration,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “It was just the most public example of something that’s been happening for a long time.”
Theo’s jaw tightened with anger on my behalf, but his voice remained gentle. “That boy doesn’t deserve you, Eleanor.”
“He’s still my son,” I said, because even hurt and disappointed, that truth remained.
“Of course he is. And someday he’ll realize what he threw away. But that’s his loss to carry, not yours.”
“What about you?” I asked, needing to shift the conversation away from my pain. “You said you never married. All these years, truly?”
“No marriage, no children,” he confirmed. “A few relationships over the years, but nothing that lasted. I kept measuring everyone against you, against the memory of what we had. It wasn’t fair to them, probably wasn’t healthy for me, but I couldn’t seem to help it.”
The admission hung between us, weighted with implications neither of us was quite ready to name.
“Theo, what are we doing here? This isn’t just a friendly catch-up dinner between old acquaintances.”
He set down his wine glass and looked at me with an intensity that reminded me of the boy he’d been, the one who’d made me believe in grand romantic gestures and happily ever afters.
Leave a Comment