Every time Marcus and I questioned our father about his much younger wife, he insisted everything was fine. Then, just before he died, he whispered something that changed the way we understood the previous six years.
“I fixed it in time.”
At first, I thought he was confused.
I was wrong.
Eight months after we buried my mother, the house still smelled like her. Lavender lingered in the linen closet, lemon polish clung to the banister, and a trace of jasmine hand cream remained on kitchen towels no one had the heart to wash.
I still expected Mom to walk through the door carrying groceries and complaining about traffic.
Instead, one Sunday in April, Dad walked in with Vanessa.
She was thirty-six years younger than him.
And two years younger than me.
“Diane, sweetheart,” she said brightly. “It’s so wonderful to meet my husband’s daughter finally.”
I stared at her.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I managed.
Marcus had driven up from the city because I begged him to. He stood in the doorway with his arms crossed and said nothing.
Dad kissed the top of my head.
He looked thinner, and tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
“Let’s have dinner,” he said. “Vanessa cooked.”
She hadn’t.
She had ordered food and transferred roasted chicken from a catering tray onto Mom’s good serving platter.
At dinner, Vanessa rested one manicured hand on Dad’s forearm.
“Robert, my love, tell them about the trainer I found you. He’s a miracle worker.”
“I’m 68, Vanessa.”
“Which is exactly why,” she laughed.
Marcus drained half his water in one swallow.
Then Vanessa noticed Dad’s watch.
“That’s a nice watch, darling. The Patek, right? You have three of them, don’t you? The rose gold is my favorite.”
“Two,” Dad said quietly. “I have two.”
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