I remember looking at her across the table.
Her white hair was pinned loosely at the back of her head. Her blue cardigan had a loose thread near one cuff. Her eyes were nervous but clear.
She knew.
Not everything, maybe.
But enough.
She knew people would call me a gold digger.
She knew the age gap was absurd.
She knew I did not look at her the way Harold had in the photographs.
And still, she asked.
I should have said no.
Instead, I reached across the table and took her hand.
“I’d be honored,” I said.
The lie came easily.
The wedding was quiet.
A courthouse ceremony with two witnesses, one being Evelyn’s neighbor Mrs. Alvarez and the other a clerk who looked like she wanted to ask questions but didn’t. Evelyn wore a pale blue dress. I wore a borrowed suit.
Her niece Caroline called that night.
