I stood in the kitchen, watching my mother—79 and radiant—bustle about, fussing over place cards and napkins like the universe depended on it.
“Mom, you’re 79—and you’re getting married?” I asked.
She flashed a mischievous smile. “It’s not the end, darling—it’s the start of a brand‑new life!”
She was as spry and determined as she’d ever been. Despite my divorce, her belief in love hadn’t faded. “Harold makes me laugh. I feel alive again.”
I sighed. She’d invited guests, chosen the dress, finalized the menu. “This is life,” she told me. “Stop hiding behind cynicism.”
On the wedding day, my tire went flat. A handsome stranger—Nick—stopped to help, accompanied by a grumpy blonde, Julie.
At the ceremony, Mom tossed the bouquet… straight to me—with one catch: the catcher must go on a date with her chosen man. Cue Nick. I tried to refuse, but Mom insisted—and arranged our one-date deal at Vincenzo’s.
Nick seemed charming, until mid‑date he stormed off to Julie—his evidently jealous companion. I cut the evening short, convinced he was a player.
But the next morning, flowers arrived—courtesy of Nick. My mom insisted dinner together—at her house, with Nick grilling burgers… and Julie by his side.
Then Nick introduced Julie… as his daughter. I was stunned. His wife had passed years earlier. Julie softened—“You’re not as bad as I thought.” She even encouraged me to go on another date.
Over dinner, as laughter filled the table, something changed. For the first time in a long while, I felt willing to believe in love again.