21. Valentina
— ? —
Valentina
Nora calls on a Tuesday afternoon.
“I need help with something,” she says without preamble. “Old photos. Eric’s been after me to organize them for years, but my hands aren’t what they used to be. Can you come over?”
I should say no. I have a shift tonight, a hundred things I should be doing instead of driving to a dying woman’s house to sort through memories.
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
Her house smells like lavender and something baking. The kitchen table is covered in boxes, each one overflowing with photographs.
“I was going to throw them out,” Nora says, settling into her chair. “But then I thought, what’s the point of living this long if you don’t leave something behind?”
We work in comfortable silence for a while. Sorting. Stacking. Occasionally she’ll hold up a photo and tell me the story behind it.
A young Nora with big hair and a bigger smile. “My wedding day. I thought I’d found my prince.”
A toddler Eric covered in chocolate. “His first birthday. He ate half the cake before I could stop him.”
A teenage Eric in a waiter’s uniform. “His first job. Fifteen years old and already convinced he’d own the place someday.”
I study the photo. Even at fifteen, he had that look. That intensity. Like he was already planning three steps ahead.
“He looks determined.”
“He was. Is.” Nora sets the photo down. “His father leaving broke something in him. Made him think love was a trap. That people would always leave eventually.”
“Is that why he’s never brought anyone here before?”
My chest tightens so hard it hurts.
The lie sits on my tongue like something spoiled. Fake dating. The arrangement. The lawyer. The rules. All of it. She’s been kind to me. She’s made me feel safe in a way I haven’t felt in years. And I’ve been smiling across her table like I deserve it.
“Nora.” My voice comes out thinner than I want. I set the photo album down because my hands aren’t steady. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
She doesn’t interrupt. Just waits, eyes soft and sharp at the same time.
I swallow. Force the words up.
“This - me and Eric - it didn’t start the way you think. I need you to know that I-”
“I know this started as a favor.” Her voice is calm. Almost gentle. “I’m sick, not stupid.”
The words hit me like cold water.
For a second I can’t breathe. The confession dies in my throat, useless. She already knows. She’s known. And she’s been letting me sit in her kitchen anyway.
“I figured it out the second week. You were too nervous. Too careful. Like you were playing a part instead of living one. The arrangement, I could forgive, my son has never asked for anything the easy way. The marriage he hid from me? That, I will be giving him hell for. But that’s between him and me.
” She reaches over and takes my hand. “But something changed. I’ve watched him look at you when he thinks no one sees.
And I’ve watched you try not to look back. ”
I can’t breathe. Can’t speak. Can’t do anything except sit there while this dying woman dismantles every wall I’ve built.
“He could lie to himself all he wants,” she continues. “But he can’t lie to me. I know him better than anyone. And I know that whatever this started as, it’s not that anymore.”
“I don’t know what it is,” I whisper.
“That’s okay. You don’t have to know yet.” She squeezes my hand. “But when I’m gone, don’t use me as the reason to walk away. Or the reason to stay. You choose him because you want him, or you don’t. Clear?”
Tears are streaming down my face. I didn’t even feel them start.
“Clear,” I manage.
“Good.” She releases my hand and picks up another photo like we weren’t just having the most important conversation of my life. “Now. Tell me about this one. That’s Eric’s high school graduation. He gave a speech. Very boring. Very long. I fell asleep twice.”
I laugh through my tears.
We spend another two hours going through boxes. By the end, I know more about Eric’s childhood than I’ve learned in all our weeks together. The science fairs he won. The fights he got into. The way he used to bring home stray cats until Nora finally put her foot down.
When I leave, Nora hugs me at the door. She’s frailer than she looks, bones sharp under her cardigan.
“Thank you,” she says. “For indulging an old woman.”
“Thank you. For seeing me.”
She pulls back. Studies my face. “Your mother would be proud of you. Whoever she was.”
The words break something open in my chest.
I drive home crying, but not from sadness.
From being seen by a mother figure for the first time since my own mother died.
From being given permission to choose freely.
From realizing that whatever this is with Eric, it stopped being fake a long time ago.
And I’m terrified.
And I don’t want it to stop.