I was supposed to be happy for my mom. At 45, she’d finally found someone who made her laugh again, someone she wanted to build a future with. After years of loneliness and heartbreak, she sounded brighter than I’d heard her in years. But the moment I met her new fiancé, that excitement soured into dread.
I’d always believed love had no expiration date, and I encouraged her to try dating again. I even set up her dating apps, swiping through profiles with her like a protective wingwoman. So when she told me, her voice practically sparkling, that she’d met someone named Aaron—a pastry chef no less—I cheered her on.
She invited me to dinner to meet him. I wanted to make a good impression, so I picked up a bottle of wine, even though it meant cutting corners the rest of the week. I was already budgeting every penny, trying to save for my dream restaurant. But this was important.
When I got to her house, I didn’t expect to feel nervous. I wasn’t the one being tested. But as soon as she opened the door, fussing with her hair and bubbling with nerves, I started to feel something I couldn’t name—just unease.
Then I saw him.
Standing in the dining room was a man about my age—maybe a little older, but not by much. I glanced at my mom, confused. “You didn’t mention Aaron had a son.”
She smiled, and it froze me in place. “That’s Aaron,” she said.
My stomach dropped.
I was speechless. Not just because he was young—two years older than me, in fact—but because it felt wrong. Not immoral. Just… wrong.
He stepped forward, polite and steady, like this wasn’t wildly inappropriate. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”
I wasn’t polite. “Are you kidding me? Is this a joke?”
My mom’s eyes widened. “Casey, don’t do this.”
