Eva

There was something undeniably different about Raymond. His sudden appearance at the mall felt almost serendipitous, yet there was a sense of purpose in his demeanor that I couldn't quite place. As he spoke to me while I shopped, there was a glint in his eyes - an intensity mingled with warmth. It stirred something deep within me, a strange feeling I couldn't shake. He had always been a polite and respectful son-in-law, but this was different.

Raymond looked striking. His well-tailored suit, the shine of his shoes, and the subtle yet distinct cologne he wore spoke volumes about how far he'd come. Compared to the last time I saw him, during the dark days when he was battling to salvage his crumbling marriage, he looked like a completely different man. His handsome features were well enhanced. Back then, he seemed weighed down by life, a shadow of himself as he fought against inevitable tides. But now? He radiated confidence, resilience, and, most importantly, a sense of peace.

I was genuinely happy to see him thriving. Knowing he had not sunk along with the shipwreck of his marriage gave me a glimmer of hope for myself. I'd heard countless stories of people who couldn't recover from divorce - stories of regret, financial ruin, and emotional devastation. While I never believed that would be my story, I would be lying if I said I hadn't felt moments of doubt. Walking away from a thirty-year marriage without a clear plan for what came next was both liberating and terrifying.

Raymond - or Ray, as I used to fondly call him during his marriage to my daughter - surprised me once again with his actions. When he insisted on paying for my groceries, I was taken aback. It wasn't about whether he could afford it; Ray had always been generous in the early years of his marriage. But after the divorce, I wasn't sure where we stood. Did he harbour resentment toward me and the family? Did he blame us for giving him a headstrong wife who had made his life miserable?

Yet, as I watched him handle the payment with ease and smile at me as though nothing had ever come between us, it became clear that he held no grudge - at least not against me. His kindness felt genuine, and it eased a tension I hadn't realized I'd been carrying.

But then came the moment that left me unsettled. After arranging a ride for me, I thanked him profusely. I'd shown my gratitude and even waved goodbye as I entered the cab, ready to head back to my temporary apartment. Just as I thought he would leave, Raymond leaned in through the window, his expression earnest.

"Let me go with you, Mom," he said, his voice low but filled with concern. "I want to know where you're staying now. There must be something I can help you out with."

The care in his tone caught me off guard, but his words sent my thoughts spiraling. How did he know? Did he already know I had left my husband? My separation was still fresh, and I hadn't told many people. Yet, the way he looked at me, the way he phrased his words - it was as though he already understood my situation.

I hesitated, unsure of how to respond, but before I could protest, he opened the door and slid into the seat beside me, leaving no room for argument.

"Driver, let's go," he said calmly, giving me a reassuring glance as the car began to move.

I sat stiffly beside him, my mind racing. How much did he know? Had someone told him? Or was this just a lucky guess? I wanted to ask, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye.

He seemed so composed, so assured, yet there was a softness in his demeanor that hinted at something deeper. For a moment, I felt vulnerable under his gaze. He wasn't prying or overstepping his boundaries, but his presence was quietly insistent, as though he wouldn't rest until he knew I was okay.

The ride was silent at first, the air heavy with unspoken thoughts. I fidgeted with the strap of my purse, wondering how this encounter would unfold. Finally, I mustered the courage to break the silence.

"Ray," I began, my voice steady but cautious, "I appreciate your concern, but I'll be fine. You don't have to worry about me."

He turned to me, his expression unwavering. "I know you will, Mom. But that doesn't mean I can't help. You've done so much for me in the past, even when things were rough. Let me return the favour."

His words struck a chord in me. He spoke with such sincerity that I felt a lump rise in my throat. I had always seen him as a son, even after the divorce, and hearing him refer to the past so graciously filled me with a mix of gratitude and guilt.

As we approached my apartment, I realized that this encounter was not just a coincidence. Whether he knew of my separation or not, his presence here felt intentional. And as much as I wanted to keep my situation private, I couldn't deny the comfort his presence brought me.

When the cab stopped, he helped me carry my bags inside, his actions swift and efficient. As we walked into the building, I glanced at him once more, wondering what fate had in store. For better or worse, it seemed that Raymond was back in my life, and I wasn't entirely sure what to make of it.

"I'm here for now," I explained softly as Raymond stepped into the apartment, his gaze sweeping the space with silent curiosity. His expression remained neutral, but his eyes seemed to take in every detail - the modest furniture, the plain curtains, the faint scent of lavender lingering in the air.

I led him to the kitchen, where he placed the shopping bags on the counter. Without a word, we began unpacking the groceries together. The silence that enveloped us wasn't awkward; it felt strangely comforting, as if no words were necessary in that moment. The rhythmic motion of our hands working side by side brought an unexpected sense of peace.

"I'm about to boil some rice and make stew," I said, breaking the silence with a gentle smile. "I hope you'll stay and have dinner with me?"

"Definitely, Mom!" he replied warmly, his voice carrying a sincerity that made my chest tighten just a little.

He stepped back from the kitchen island, giving me space to start cooking. Yet, instead of retreating completely, he leaned slightly against the counter and asked, "Is there anything I can cut or help you with?"

"Not really, dear. I'll handle it," I assured him, waving a hand dismissively. "Just make yourself comfortable on the couch. Dinner will be ready in no time."

I offered him another smile, and he returned it with one of his own - a smile that carried both warmth and familiarity. With a slight nod, he moved to the cabinets, grabbed a glass, and poured himself some orange juice. Then, as I'd instructed, he made his way to the living room, settling onto the couch.

From the kitchen, I watched as he loosened his tie, shrugged off his jacket, and draped it over the armrest. He leaned back, remote in hand, and turned on the TV. A flicker of surprise crossed my mind when I realized I had a satellite TV. I hadn't even explored all the features of this apartment yet.

The sound of the TV filled the air - a soothing hum of voices and music blending with the faint sizzle of onions in the pan. Every now and then, I stole glances at him as I worked, my hands busy chopping vegetables or stirring the pot.

He looked completely at ease, his legs stretched out before him, one arm resting casually on the back of the couch. It was almost surreal, seeing him so relaxed in my space, as if he belonged here. It wasn't just his physical presence that struck me - it was the fact that he seemed to have all the time in the world for me.

Why was Raymond, a young stunningly good looking, and obviously successful man, spending his precious evening with someone like me? An old woman who had just started piecing her life together after years of marital discontent?

My mind wandered as I cooked, the smells of spices and simmering stew filling the small kitchen. Raymond had always been kind and respectful, but this level of attention, this effort, was unexpected. It wasn't just about the groceries or the ride home. It was the way he stayed - calm, patient, and genuinely present.

A part of me wanted to ask him what brought him here, why he cared so much, but I couldn't bring myself to disrupt the fragile tranquility of the moment. Instead, I focused on the task at hand, letting the rhythm of cooking soothe my thoughts.

By the time the rice was almost ready, I turned to glance at him again. He caught my gaze this time, and for a moment, our eyes met. There was something in his expression - a softness, a sense of understanding -that made me feel seen in a way I hadn't felt in years.

"Smells amazing, Mom," he said, his voice cutting through my thoughts.

I chuckled softly. "It'll taste even better. Just a few more minutes."

As I turned back to the stove, a small smile lingered on my lips. For the first time in a long while, I didn't feel so alone.

Sharing dinner with Ray felt like a balm to my weary soul. For the first time since I left home, I felt genuinely at ease - more at home with him than I ever had with my own daughter, Tessy. The warmth of his presence filled the small apartment, pushing away the loneliness that had quietly lingered in its corners.

Ray, as usual, praised my cooking. "This is amazing, Mom! You haven't lost your touch," he said with a boyish grin, his fork already making its way to his mouth for another bite.

I laughed, shaking my head. "You always say that. Either I'm that good, or you're just flattering me."

He winked playfully. "Oh, it's definitely the first one!"

We ate like two people who hadn't had a proper meal in ages. There was no pretense, no formality - just the sound of our laughter mingling with the clinking of plates. At one point, we both reached for the last piece of chicken, only to burst into giggles like children. I gave in and let him have it, though he pretended to hesitate before devouring it in two bites.

After the meal, I instinctively started gathering the plates, but Ray quickly intervened.

"No, no, no," he said, gently taking the dishes from my hands. "You've done enough, Mom. Go sit down. I've got this."

I raised an eyebrow, amused by his insistence. "Ray, I'm perfectly capable of cleaning up. Don't think you can come here and start ordering me around."

He grinned, unfazed. "I wouldn't dream of it. But tonight, it's my turn to take care of you."

Before I could protest further, he grabbed the remote from the coffee table and practically marched me to the sofa. "Here. Watch something fun. That's an order," he teased, giving me a mock-serious look.

Laughing, I relented and sank into the cushions. "Fine, fine. You win."

From the sofa, I watched him move around the kitchen, rinsing dishes and wiping down the counters with surprising efficiency. It was such a simple gesture, yet it spoke volumes. I couldn't remember the last time someone had gone out of their way to take care of me like this.

When he finally finished, he joined me in the living room, and we settled in to watch a drama series together. The evening passed in a blur of laughter and commentary about the over-the-top plot twists.

As the clock ticked closer to midnight, Ray glanced at me and noticed I was struggling to keep my eyes open.

"Looks like it's bedtime for you," he said, standing and stretching.

I started to protest, but he cut me off with a knowing look.

"Don't argue, Mom. You've had a long day," he said gently.

He leaned in as if to say goodbye, but instead, he surprised me by pressing a warm kiss to my forehead.

"Thank you so much for dinner. I really loved it," he said softly. Then, with a smile that felt like a promise, he added, "I'll be in town for a while, so I'll keep checking in on you every day."

Before I could respond, he turned and headed for the door, leaving me both touched and speechless.

"Goodnight, Mom. And please don't worry about a thing," he said over his shoulder before quietly closing the door behind him.

I sat there for a moment, staring at the door, a mix of emotions swirling in my chest. Gratitude. Warmth. A faint sense of disbelief. For the first time in what felt like forever, I didn't feel so alone.