My mother had not truly laughed in eleven years, ever since my father passed away. Then Richard appeared in her life, and everything about her seemed brighter. She started wearing perfume again, buying colorful clothes, and humming while preparing dinner. I wanted to be happy for her, especially because Richard seemed kind and attentive. He brought flowers, repaired things around her house, and listened whenever she spoke. But there was one strange habit I could never understand. Every Sunday evening, without exception, Richard left at exactly 7:30.

His explanations were always different. Sometimes he claimed he had an important phone call, while other times a neighbor supposedly needed his help. My daughter Chloe noticed the pattern too and jokingly called it his “Cinderella schedule.” Eventually, I asked Mom whether she had ever visited Richard’s home. She hesitated before admitting that she had not. I became worried and told her she should be careful, but she simply smiled sadly and said she wanted to enjoy being hopeful again. Then came her seventy-second birthday. Richard stayed through dinner, but at 7:26 he glanced at his watch. When Mom asked him to stay for dessert, he apologized and walked toward the door. Chloe suddenly stood up, grabbed her coat, and followed him.