“You’re building a case against me now?”
“I’m trying to understand the man I almost married.”
He ended the call. I stood by Mom’s sink, looking at a basil plant she kept turning toward the light. A week earlier, Evan had bought her that pot. I had taken it as proof that he cared about her.
The next morning, I found a stylist named June through a coworker. When I called, I said Mom needed an uneven cut repaired. I left out the fight because it wasn’t mine to turn into a story for strangers.
June asked Mom what she wanted before she touched her hair. She placed her comb on the counter and waited through a long silence.
“Can you save enough to cover my ears?” Mom asked.
“Most of them. I’ll show you before I cut.”
I sat across the room. Each time June lifted a section, she explained what she could keep and where the damage forced her hand. Mom asked questions. Nobody hurried her.
Halfway through, she told June that my father had loved her braid.
“He’s been gone nine years,” she added. “I know it’s foolish.”
“It’s hair you grew,” June said. “You don’t need a reason.”
I had known about Dad, of course. What I hadn’t known was that Mom had sometimes considered cutting it. She had imagined doing it on a birthday, or before a trip, when she felt ready to see someone different in the mirror. Hearing that made Celia’s excuse about giving her a fresh start feel even crueler. Mom had wanted the right to choose her own change.
The finished cut was soft and neat. Mom thanked June, then cried in the car. I kept my hands in my lap until she reached for one.
When I went to the apartment Evan and I shared, his mother was waiting with him. A cardboard box sat on the kitchen table. Inside were favors we had assembled together on Sunday, little jars of honey with labels bearing our names.
“Sit down,” his mother said.
“I’m here for clothes and my documents.”
“Celia could press charges.”
“I understand.”
She seemed annoyed that I hadn’t argued. Evan stood by the refrigerator, wearing the shirt he used when he wanted to look reasonable at work.
“We can still save this,” he said. “Celia wants an apology and the cost of extensions. We explain you were under pressure. Your mom says it was a misunderstanding.”
“My mother will say what happened.”
His mother folded her hands. “A wedding joins families. Sometimes that means overlooking things.”
“You want her to overlook being ignored. You want Celia to be paid for being hurt. Why are those different rules?”
“Because you attacked her,” Evan said.
“I did. And you helped arrange something Mom never agreed to.”
He pushed away from the refrigerator. “I suggested a haircut. You’re making me sound like some criminal mastermind.”
“Then show me the messages.”
He held my gaze, waiting for me to retreat. I had done that often during arguments, accepting his description of a disagreement because I wanted the evening to be pleasant again. This time, I opened a drawer and took out my passport.
“I need to know what you said about my mother when neither of us was there.”
His mother spoke before he could. “We were trying to help with the photographs.”
