I was supposed to be happy for my mom. At 45, she’d finally found someone—Aaron, a pastry chef—who made her light up again. I helped her set up dating apps and cheered her on. But when I met Aaron, dread replaced excitement. He wasn’t what I expected. He was my age. Two years older, in fact. I was stunned. “You didn’t mention Aaron had a son,” I said. “That’s Aaron,” my mom replied.
I snapped. “You could be his mother.” I accused him of using her, of wanting her money. Then she dropped the real bomb: they were getting married in two months. I stormed out, convinced I had to protect her. Later, I pretended to accept the relationship to get closer—and dig for the truth. I watched Aaron like a hawk. He never slipped.
