When Javier first said his mom was gonna stay with us for “just a week,” I didn’t push back. She’d had hip surgery, and she couldn’t do stairs for a bit. It made sense. We’ve got the only one-floor setup in the family.
So I cleared out my little work nook for her. Got her some lavender candles. Even bought a damn orthopedic pillow. I was trying to be nice.
First week? Fine. She mostly watched her cooking shows and judged the way I made coffee (apparently I “bruise the beans,” whatever that means). Second week? She starts leaving little notes on how to load the dishwasher “more efficiently.” By week three, she’s rearranging the pantry “so it makes more sense.”
I told Javier, “Babe, this isn’t temporary anymore.” He just rubbed his face and mumbled something about her needing “more time.”
She’s 67, blondish, and still wears perfume like she’s about to be on a cruise. But don’t let the dainty vibes fool you—she’s a strategic squatter. Every time I ask when she’s heading back home, she comes up with a new reason to stay.
“The water heater at my place’s acting up.”
“Oh, the neighbor’s been shady lately.”
“I don’t feel safe sleeping alone just yet.”
She’s got a closet full of her robes now. Keeps saying “we” when she talks about dinner plans. Javier’s no help—he’s clearly torn between me and the woman who gave him life.
But last night, I found something in the laundry that made my jaw drop. Something that wasn’t hers… wasn’t mine… and definitely shouldn’t have been there.
It was a pair of men’s socks. Not Javier’s.
They were smaller, like a size 8 maybe, and bright red with little saxophones on them. Javier’s a size 12 and strictly wears those boring grey ones from Costco.
At first, I thought—maybe a mix-up? Maybe they got in there from the neighbor’s or the laundromat? But no. We have our own washer and dryer. I asked Javier if he recognized them, and he just gave me a blank stare.
“That’s not mine. And I’ve never seen those in my life,” he said.
That night I couldn’t sleep. I kept playing different scenarios in my head, each wilder than the last. Was she dating someone? Sneaking him in while we were at work? Was I losing my mind?
The next morning, I watched her closely as she made her “special oatmeal” and chatted about a rerun of Wheel of Fortune. Nothing seemed off. She even wore her usual fluffy blue robe and slippers with the pink bows. But then I noticed a phone in her robe pocket.
A phone that wasn’t her usual flip phone.
Later that day, when she went out “for a short walk,” I asked Javier straight up, “Is your mom seeing someone?”
His eyebrows shot up. “What? No. She’s barely healed from surgery. Why would you even—”
I told him about the socks. The phone. The weird little whispers I’d heard the night before when she was supposedly asleep.
“I don’t know, Javi. Something’s not adding up.”
He didn’t believe me at first. Said I was probably just frustrated and overthinking. But that night, we both heard it. A knock at the back door around 11:30 p.m. A soft knock. Then whispering. Then nothing.
The next day, she was in an extra good mood. Making waffles. Singing Ain’t No Mountain High Enough. And when I asked her what she was so chipper about, she just said, “A woman should always start the day with a smile.”
Two days later, I got the full truth. Not from her. From him.
I came home early from work and walked straight into the kitchen—and there he was. A man. Mid-60s maybe, tan skin, grey curls under a fishing hat, pouring himself a glass of lemonade like he lived there. My mother-in-law popped out from the hallway in a sundress and said, “Oh, you’re home early!”
She looked like a teenager who got caught sneaking a boy in. The man smiled sheepishly and said, “Hi, I’m Randall.”
Turns out, Randall was her high school sweetheart, recently widowed, who she’d reconnected with at a grocery store three months ago. They’d been seeing each other secretly because, as she put it, “I didn’t want you two to think I was being ridiculous at my age.”
Javier was stunned. I was too. But I had to admit—after the initial shock wore off, it kind of made sense. The sneaky smiles. The late-night “walks.” The second phone.
And then she hit us with the real kicker: “Randall and I are thinking of getting a place together. Maybe in Arizona. Something with a garden.”
Just like that, she packed up her robes, kissed us both on the cheek, and left.
I stood in the doorway, blinking, unsure if I was relieved, happy, or just plain confused.
But here’s what I realized: we all crave companionship. No matter how old we get. She wasn’t trying to take over our house—she just didn’t know how to step into this new chapter alone. And while it was chaotic and a little nerve-wracking, I’m glad she gave herself the chance to find joy again.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that love has no expiration date.
So yeah, it was a wild six months. But now I’ve got my workspace back… and a strange fondness for red socks with saxophones.
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