It felt like a relief. They weren’t a couple—just two people sharing space, moving through life in silence. Dinners were cold, conversations minimal. They didn’t fight, but they never laughed either. It was like living with shadows.

So when they finally said, “It’s over,” I just nodded. After the divorce, life moved on. But I started noticing the quiet weight on my mom. The way she lingered at goodbyes, her eyes drifting during family dinners. She was lonely, even if she wouldn’t admit it. “Try dating,” I told her. She brushed it off—until one day, she texted me a photo of a pastry. “New shop near me,” she wrote. I didn’t think much of it.

Then she called. “I met someone,” she said, voice lighter than I’d heard in years. “His name’s Marcus. He’s a pastry chef.” When I arrived to meet him, she was glowing, the table set beautifully. And then I saw him. Marcus. My ex. We stared at each other, stunned. “You didn’t know she was my mom?” I asked. “I didn’t realize,” he said. “I thought it was just a coincidence.”

My mom went pale. “Wait… you two—?” “For almost a year,” I said. She walked away. Later, she called. “I ended it,” she said. “It’s too messy.” “You didn’t have to,” I replied. We sat in silence. “Do you think I’ll ever find someone?” she finally asked. “You will,” I said, though neither of us sounded convinced.