But there was someone else from those years I remembered even more clearly.

Marcus’s wife.

She drew ridiculous cartoons on his lunch bags.

Marcus taped his favorites beside the register.

Every Thursday, he left work at exactly five.

“Regional meeting,” someone teased once.

Marcus grabbed his coat.

“Dinner with my wife.”

“The meeting’s important, Marcus.”

“They’ll survive.”

Then one Thursday, he didn’t leave.

He sat in his office staring at his phone.

The next week, he barely spoke.

A month later, Marcus left the bookstore.

His wife was sick.

He was going home to care for her.

I never saw him again.

Eventually, I heard she had died.

And now, 11 years later, he was sitting at my mother’s dinner table.

I couldn’t stop wondering whether Mom understood what she was getting into.

Marcus stayed until just after nine.

Mom stood at the door smiling as his car backed away.

Then she closed it and turned to me.

“Well?”

I watched through the window until his taillights vanished.

Mom’s smile faded when she saw my expression.

“Mom, before you get any closer to him, there’s something you need to know.”

She said nothing.

So I told her about the bookstore.

About Marcus.

About his wife.

About how deeply that marriage had seemed woven into who he was.

Mom listened without interrupting.

Finally, I said what had weighed on me all evening.

“You’ve spent your whole life coming second, Mom.”

Her eyebrows tightened.

“To bills. To work. To Dad when he was still around. To me.”

I swallowed.

“I don’t want you spending the rest of your life competing with someone who isn’t even here.”

Mom didn’t respond.

Instead, she walked into the hallway and took her coat from the hook.

“Put your shoes on, Jean.”

I stared at her.

“What?”

She grabbed her keys.

“I could explain this, but you’d still think I’m making excuses for him.”

She met my eyes.

“There’s something you need to see.”

Mom drove about 15 minutes without explaining.

“Are you kidnapping me?”

“Yes.”

“Good to know.”

“You ask too many questions.”

“You raised me, Mom.”

That finally made her smile.

But she kept driving.

We turned into a community garden behind a small recreation center.

Most plots were dark, but strings of warm lights lined the main path.

Then I saw Marcus.

He was kneeling beside a tomato plant, carefully tying a stem to a wooden stake.

Mom lowered her window.

“You’re strangling it.”

Marcus looked up.

“I’m supporting it.”

“It’s leaning away from you.”

“Ungrateful plant,” he said.

I stared at Mom.

“You knew he’d be here?”

“I knew he’d probably be here.”

She parked.

Marcus brushed dirt from his knees as we approached.

His expression softened when he saw me.

“Ah.”

I folded my arms.

“That’s reassuring.”

Mom touched my elbow.

“Jean, look around.”

I did.

Small plaques marked several garden plots.

Some carried names.

Others had dates.

Marcus followed my gaze.

“This section belongs to a bereavement group.”

“Bereavement group?” I asked.

He nodded toward the tomatoes.

“My wife grew them every summer.”

His voice shifted slightly.

“After she died, I couldn’t even look at one without thinking about her.”

He paused.

“When I joined the group, they told us to plant something we’d have to keep alive long enough to see another season.”

“And you chose tomatoes?”

Mom snorted.

“Arrogance. He killed two batches.”

“One and a half,” Marcus corrected.

“Two.”

Marcus sighed.

“Your mother’s very supportive.”

I looked at Mom.

“You knew about his wife?”

“Of course I knew.”

“How much?”

Mom slipped her hands into her coat pockets.

“Enough to know I would’ve liked her.”

That stopped me.

All evening, I had assumed Mom was too infatuated to notice what I saw.

Instead, she had seen more.

Marcus stepped closer but kept space between us.

I looked directly at him.

“Do you still love her?”

“Yes.”

He answered immediately.

Marcus glanced toward the crooked tomato plant.

“She’s dead, Jeannie. Not erased.”

Then he looked at Mom.

“Loving your mother didn’t require me to stop loving the woman who taught me how.”

I frowned.

“What does that even mean?”

Marcus rubbed dirt from his thumb.

“You remember how I used to ask what you wanted at the bookstore?”

I nodded.

He gave a faint smile.

“That wasn’t originally my wisdom.”

I stared at him.

“My wife used to get furious with me because I planned everything. Restaurants. Vacations. Weekends.”

He shook his head.

“I thought taking care of somebody meant handling things for them.”

His expression grew serious.

“One night, my wife finally said, ‘Marcus, stop loving me like a project. Ask.’”

Something shifted inside me.

“Years later, I watched you say ‘whatever’ to every question anyone asked you.”

He looked at me.

“I recognized it.”

I remembered the blue book.

The sweater.

Those tiny questions.

For years, I thought Marcus had simply taught me to have an opinion.

Now I understood he had learned that lesson from someone else.

Someone who had mattered deeply to him.

Someone I feared Mom could never compete with.

I turned to my mother.

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

Mom looked at me.

“That he still loves her?”

I nodded.

She considered it.

“Jean, I raised you by myself for most of my adult life.”

She gave me a knowing look.

“Do you really think I’d trust a man whose answer to loss was pretending somebody never mattered?”

I looked away.

“I’m not dating the man he was before her.”

Mom glanced toward Marcus.

“I’m dating the man he became.”

Marcus cleared his throat.

“This is becoming alarmingly positive.”

I laughed before I could stop myself.

Mom took my hand.

“I know why you were worried.”