Chapter 3 – The Question No Wife Should Hear

“No, Robert.”

My mother reached for him again.

He stepped back.

“Please don’t send me away.”

Her face crumpled.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Dad looked around the room.

Thirty people had fallen silent.

Some watched with sympathy.

Others looked uncomfortable.

He seemed to notice every pair of eyes.

“I can still dress myself,” he said.

Nobody answered.

“I make my own breakfast most mornings.”

His voice grew unsteady.

“Sometimes I forget things, but I can learn.”

I watched my mother struggle to breathe.

Dad had spent his entire adult life taking care of other people.

He’d worked as a maintenance supervisor for thirty-two years.

He could repair almost anything.

He’d fixed the roof of our first house, rebuilt our porch, and taught me how to change a tire when I was seventeen.

Now he was standing in a beautiful restaurant, trying to prove he deserved to stay with his own wife.

Luca moved between Dad and the guests.

“Robert, nobody is making decisions about your home tonight.”

Dad looked at him.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Vanessa opened her mouth.

Luca raised one hand.

“Not another word about his medical care.”

She stared at him.

“I was only explaining—”

“You shared something private that Betty trusted you with.”

Vanessa’s face reddened.

“You’re treating me like I’ve committed some terrible offense.”

“You frightened a man who came here to celebrate his marriage.”

She looked away.

Luca turned toward the guests.

“Please give this family some privacy. Dinner service will continue.”

Several people moved toward the other end of the long table.

His uncle quietly asked the pianist to take a break.

Nobody left the room.

But the space around my parents finally felt less crowded.

Mom sat beside Dad.

She took a deep breath.

“Robert, I need to tell you something.”

He stared at the white tablecloth.

“Okay.”

“Last week, I made an appointment with a doctor who helps families deal with memory problems.”

Dad nodded slowly.

“Because of me.”

“Because of both of us.”

He looked confused.

Mom touched his sleeve.

“I love taking care of you. But sometimes I get frightened.”

His eyes filled.

“Of me?”

She shook her head.

“Of making a mistake. Of not knowing what to do when you get confused.”

She looked toward me.

“And sometimes I need help.”

I felt my stomach tighten.

“Mom, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you’ve been working so hard.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“I know.”

She looked ashamed.

“I didn’t want you worrying about us every minute.”

I sat beside her.

“I’m your daughter. You don’t have to protect me from loving you.”

Mom began crying.

For sixteen months, I’d worked long hours serving a family with far more money than mine.

I’d helped prepare elaborate dinners and celebrations.

But somewhere along the way, I’d mistaken paying attention to everyone else’s needs for being responsible.

I hadn’t noticed how tired my mother had become.

Dad looked at her.

“Are you tired, Betty?”

She smiled sadly.

“Sometimes.”

“Because I ask too many questions?”

“Sometimes I get tired because I’m seventy-one, sweetheart.”

He laughed softly.

“So am I.”

“Robert, you’re seventy-four.”

He blinked.

Then grinned.

“See? That’s why I need you.”

We all laughed.

Even Mom.

For a moment, the tension eased.

Then Dad became serious.

“I don’t want you to get sick taking care of me.”

She squeezed his hand.

“And I don’t want you frightened because I ask for help.”

He considered that.

Then nodded.

“Okay.”

Luca sat across from them.

“My mother used to say marriage means knowing when to carry somebody and when to let them carry you.”

Mom smiled.

“That’s a good way to put it.”

Luca glanced toward Vanessa.

She stood alone beside the fireplace.

For the first time, she looked genuinely shaken.

“Vanessa,” he said, “I understand why you thought Robert might be overwhelmed.”

She looked up.

“Thank you.”

“But that doesn’t explain why his reservation disappeared.”

Her expression closed again.

I turned toward him.

“What do you mean?”

Luca gestured toward the restaurant’s guest-services manager, Margaret Quinn.

Margaret was fifty-six, with neatly pinned gray-streaked hair and an expression that rarely changed.

She’d been quietly checking the reservation records.

“Mr. Moretti,” she said, “the Carter anniversary was entered on May third.”

I nodded.

“That’s when Dad booked it.”

Margaret continued.

“The deposit was paid in full. The menu was selected. The cake was ordered.”

Mom looked relieved.

“Robert handled everything himself.”

Dad smiled.

“Did I?”

“Yes, honey.”

Margaret looked toward Vanessa.

“But three weeks ago, the reservation was marked canceled.”

My heart dropped.

“Canceled by whom?”

Margaret hesitated.

“The record says a family member requested it.”

I stared at her.

“What family member?”

She looked uncomfortable.

“That’s what I’m trying to establish.”

Vanessa stepped forward.

“Margaret, surely this can wait.”

“No,” Luca said.

He turned toward the manager.

“Was my engagement dinner booked before or after the Carter anniversary?”

Margaret looked down.

“After.”

Vanessa closed her eyes.

The answer seemed to hurt Luca more than he expected.

He turned toward her.

“You knew they had this room first.”

“I knew there was an existing reservation.”

“And you booked our engagement dinner anyway.”

“I believed it could be rearranged.”

“But you never asked them.”

Vanessa said nothing.

Dad quietly cleared his throat.

“Excuse me.”

Everyone turned.

He looked toward Vanessa.

“I remember giving you something Monday.”

Her eyes widened.

“A little envelope.”

Mom frowned.

“What envelope?”

Dad looked uncertain.

“Blue, I think.”

Then he smiled faintly.

“I wrote something for Betty. I asked the nice lady to keep it until our dinner.”

Vanessa stared at him.

Dad looked toward her.

“You said you’d put it somewhere safe.”

I saw her fingers tighten around her diamond bracelet.

Then Dad asked, very gently:

“Did you lose the letter I wrote for my wife, or did you decide she shouldn’t have that either?”