“Tell me I’m dreaming,” I whispered.
My fiancé, Daniel, immediately stood up.
“Claire, please. Let me explain.”
I laughed, although there was nothing funny about what I was seeing.
“Explain what? Why you’re in my mother’s bed? Why the man I’m supposed to marry in three weeks is sleeping with the woman who gave birth to me?”
My mother, Evelyn, lowered her eyes.
She was fifty-eight years old, elegant, and usually so composed that I had never seen her lose control of a situation. Even when my father died, she had managed to arrange the funeral, comfort the relatives, and return to work before the week was over.
Now she looked like a stranger.
“How long?” I demanded.
Neither of them answered.
“HOW LONG?”
“Three months,” my mother finally whispered.
I grabbed the doorframe to steady myself.
Three months.
For three months, she had listened to me discuss wedding flowers, reception menus, and honeymoon plans. She had accompanied me to bridal shops. She had helped me choose my wedding dress and even cried when I showed her the final design.
