When Javier first mentioned his mom would stay with us for “just a week,” I didn’t argue. She had hip surgery and couldn’t manage stairs for a while, so it made sense. After all, we were the only ones with a one-floor house in the family.
So, I cleared out my little work nook for her, bought some lavender candles, even got her an orthopedic pillow. I was trying to be nice. The first week? Fine. She mostly watched cooking shows and critiqued how I made coffee (apparently I “bruise the beans,” whatever that means). Week two? She left little notes about how to load the dishwasher “more efficiently.” By week three, she was rearranging the pantry to “make more sense.”
I told Javier, “Babe, this isn’t temporary anymore.” He just rubbed his face and mumbled something about her needing “more time.”
She’s 67, blondish, and still wears perfume like she’s about to board a cruise. But don’t let her dainty vibes fool you—she’s a strategic squatter. Whenever I ask when she’s heading back home, she comes up with a new excuse.
“The water heater at my place is acting up.”
“Oh, the neighbor’s been shady lately.”
“I don’t feel safe sleeping alone yet.”
Her robes now fill the closet. She keeps saying “we” when talking about dinner plans. Javier’s no help—he’s clearly torn between me and the woman who raised him.
But last night, I found something in the laundry that made my jaw drop. Something that wasn’t hers… wasn’t mine… and definitely shouldn’t have been there.
It was a pair of men’s socks. Not Javier’s. They were smaller—probably a size 8—and bright red with little saxophones on them. Javier wears boring gray ones from Costco, and he’s a size 12. At first, I thought maybe they got mixed up at the laundromat, but no, we have our own washer and dryer. I asked Javier if he recognized them, and he just stared at me blankly.
“That’s not mine. I’ve never seen those before,” he said.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. My mind kept running through wild scenarios. Was she dating someone? Sneaking him in while we were at work? Was I losing my mind?
The next morning, I watched her closely as she made her “special oatmeal” and rambled about a rerun of Wheel of Fortune. Nothing seemed off. She even wore her usual fluffy blue robe and slippers with pink bows. But then I noticed something—a phone in her robe pocket.
A phone that wasn’t her usual flip phone. Later that day, when she went out for a “short walk,” I asked Javier point-blank, “Is your mom seeing someone?”
His eyebrows shot up. “What? No. She’s barely healed from surgery. Why would you even—”
I told him about the socks, the phone, and the whispers I’d heard the night before when she was supposedly asleep.
“I don’t know, Javi. Something’s not adding up.” At first, he didn’t believe me. Said I was probably just frustrated and overthinking. But that night, we both heard it: a knock at the back door around 11:30 p.m. Soft knock, whispering, then nothing.
The next day, she was in an unusually good mood—making waffles, singing “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.” When I asked her what had her so chipper, she simply said, “A woman should always start the day with a smile.”
Two days later, I got the full truth. Not from her, but from him.
I came home early from work and walked straight into the kitchen—and there he was. A man, mid-60s, tan skin, grey curls under a fishing hat, pouring himself lemonade like he lived there. My mother-in-law popped out from the hallway in a sundress and said, “Oh, you’re home early!” She looked like a teenager caught sneaking in a boy. The man smiled sheepishly and said, “Hi, I’m Randall.”
Turns out, Randall was her high school sweetheart, recently widowed, and they’d reconnected at a grocery store three months ago. They’d been seeing each other secretly because, as she put it, “I didn’t want you two to think I was being ridiculous at my age.”
Javier was stunned. I was too. But after the shock wore off, I had to admit—it made sense. The sneaky smiles, the late-night “walks,” the second phone.
And then she hit us with the real kicker: “Randall and I are thinking of getting a place together. Maybe in Arizona. Something with a garden.” Just like that, she packed up her robes, kissed us both on the cheek, and left.
I stood in the doorway, blinking, unsure if I felt relieved, happy, or just plain confused.
But here’s what I realized: We all crave companionship, no matter how old we are. She wasn’t trying to take over our house—she just didn’t know how to navigate this new chapter alone. And while it was chaotic and nerve-wracking, I’m glad she gave herself the chance to find joy again.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that love has no expiration date. So yeah, it was a wild six months. But now I’ve got my workspace back… and a strange fondness for red socks with saxophones.
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