And listened to her memories of my late father.
When her eightieth birthday arrived, Ethan brought her yellow roses.
The bouquet cost twelve dollars.
Mom cried when she saw them.
I eventually found out he’d spent every penny he had.
“Why would you give away your last twelve dollars?” I asked him.
He shrugged.
“Everyone deserves flowers on their birthday. Especially her.”
Over the next several months, Mom grew very close to Ethan.
Then one Sunday she told me something astonishing.
“I asked Ethan to be my husband.”
I nearly dropped my cup.
“Mom, you’re fifty-six years older than him!”
She smiled.
“I can count.”
There was sadness behind it.
“I wanted him to have a home. Health insurance if possible. Someone legally expected to look after him instead of treating him like he disappears when he leaves the room.”
“Marriage isn’t a housing program.”
“I know.”
“Does he?”
“He said essentially the same thing.”
