When they arrived, Anna looked apologetic—hair loosely tied back, jeans and a pale blouse, one collar slightly wrinkled. Aaron held her hand, eyes fixed on the pastry case.
“This is Anna,” I said, standing. “And this is Aaron.”
My mother rose, shook Anna’s hand, and offered a smile devoid of warmth.
“You must be tired,” she said.
“I am,” Anna replied with a gentle laugh. “One of those days.”
My mother asked Aaron only one question: “What’s your favorite subject in school?”
When he said art, she rolled her eyes and ignored him for the rest of the meeting. When the bill arrived, she paid only for herself.
In the car afterward, Anna glanced at me.
“She doesn’t like me, Jon.”
There was no anger—just clarity.
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