She was his father’s widow. A technicality with a pulse. For Mark, she was a living museum exhibit labeled: Dad’s Second Wife. Handle with Awkwardness.
Mark looked up, startled. “Do what?” stepmom makes the first move
The house had been too quiet for eighteen months. Not the peaceful kind of quiet, but the heavy, held-breath kind, like a phone that had stopped ringing mid-conversation. She was his father’s widow
“This.” She gestured at the table, the two plates, the careful distance between their chairs. “The performance. I’m not your dad. I’m not trying to replace him. But I’m also not a ghost you have to be polite to.” Handle with Awkwardness
“I miss your father every day. That’s not going to change. But I’m also—” she paused, searching for the word that wasn’t pathetic or predatory, “—lonely. And the only person I don’t feel lonely with, lately, is you.”
The fork lowered. The rain seemed to hush.
“I’m your stepson.”