When my son brought a new friend to dinner, I never expected the stranger at my table to carry the one secret I’d spent a lifetime trying to forget.
I’m Megan, and I’ve lived fifty-five full years with my heart stitched together by family, grief, and quiet resilience.
My life isn’t flashy. I bake too much, I talk to my hydrangeas, and I still fold my husband’s socks the way his mother taught me. My son Greg is twenty-two and finishing up his degree while working part-time at a marketing firm.
My husband Richard, steady, kind, a terrible dancer, still believes putting salt in coffee “brings out the flavor.” And I suppose that gives you a glimpse of us.
It started with Greg coming home one Thursday afternoon, dropping his bag by the stairs, and wandering into the kitchen, sniffing out the chicken pot pie like he always did.
“Work okay?” I asked, peeking over my reading glasses.
He nodded. “Yeah. There’s this girl there — well, woman.
Marla. No, wait — sorry, Nancy. We’ve been working on the same campaign.”
I looked up.
“A girl, huh?”
He groaned, flopping onto the barstool. “Don’t start, Mom. We’re just friends.
She’s from Colorado, super chill. Not my type, but we click.”
I didn’t push. I just filed it away.
The following Sunday, he brought her.
I opened the door, expecting maybe a shy handshake and polite smiles.
But there she was: poised, with soft brown curls pulled into a low bun and a faint trace of something floral on her scarf. Her eyes, though, deep-set and unreadable, made me pause for a split second.
“Hi, I’m Nancy,” she said, holding out a bottle of wine and the tiniest smile.
“I’m Megan,” I replied, taking the bottle. “Come in, sweetie.
Dinner’s almost ready.”
That night, she barely said a word during dinner, but when I passed the mashed potatoes, her hand brushed mine, and I felt this odd flutter in my chest. Not fear. Just something familiar.
Over the next few weeks, Nancy came back.
First, with a cheesecake. Then, with a potted succulent for the kitchen window. She played Scrabble with my daughter Leah and laughed with my husband over old sitcom reruns.
Barbecues, birthdays, holidays — Nancy became a regular guest, always kind and observant.
“Greg, she’s lovely,” I said one night while we were washing up.
“She is,” he agreed.
“But like I said, we’re just friends. She doesn’t date coworkers.”
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
