When my parents divorced, I felt more relieved than hurt. Their marriage had been full of tension, and I’d long encouraged my mom to find someone new because she often admitted how lonely she was.
So when she excitedly told me she had a boyfriend named Aaron—a pastry chef—I was genuinely happy for her. I even bought an expensive bottle of wine on my way to dinner, despite barely scraping by while saving for my dream restaurant.
But the moment I walked into the dining room, everything crashed. Aaron wasn’t some older man—I recognized instantly he was my age. Shock shot through me, and I blurted out, “Is this a joke?”
Mom stayed calm. “Casey, we’re dating.”
My anger took over. I accused him of using her for money and demanded they break up. Mom, offended and firm, told me they were actually engaged and marrying in two months. Aaron tried to reassure me, but I refused to listen and stormed out.
For days I replayed the scene, unable to accept it. Finally, I called Mom pretending to reconcile. I forced a friendly voice and said I’d support her if Aaron made her happy. She sounded instantly relieved.
