I was waiting in line at
Taco Bell, getting lunch between patients when my cell phone rang.  My
Mom asked me what I was up to, conversational tones, if not a bit
sheepish.  Nothing, I replied, just sitting in the drive through,
waiting on my burrito.  Then she dropped the bomb.  She had gone on a
date the night before.  My Mother, on a date, was not what I wanted to
hear.  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.  She sensed my
wariness.  I reminded her of her recent split.  That she needed time to
recover.  She assured me he was a nice man.  Uh huh, yeah, I had heard
that before.  But, she threw in the side of guilt, “Well, if it means
that much to you, I’ll just stop seeing him.  I don’t want to hurt our
relationship.  I just wanted to get out and have some fun.”  I swear if
the woman doesn’t have the Catholic thing down pat.  What kind of
monster would I be to deny her some fun after twenty years of Hell? She didn’t mention him for a while after that.  I assumed things had
fizzled out.  We kept on the way we had.  Then the other shoe dropped in
my lap.  I always threw a big party for Easter.  It was my first year
out of Nursing School.  Mom asked if she could come with her Beau.  I
grudgingly said yes.  I had a plan.  I was going to run him off!  She
was MY Mom and I JUST got her back!  How dare he move in on my
territory?  I was going to show him.  I can be just as mean as I
please.  I learned from the best, Mom herself. She
showed up with him at my house.  It was a beautiful, sunny day.  People
were milling around.  My daughter, on a pixie stick high, was tearing
around the house in her destructive three-year-old way.  I was running
food in and out of the house, watching the barbecue pit, being social to
everyone BUT him.  He approached me.  “My name is N” he said, “and I
love your Mother.”  Smart ass that I am quipped, “Well, you don’t know
her very well, then.”  He laughed a hearty laugh.  A
real belly laugh, not a fake
“laugh-because-I’m-dating-your-Mother-and-I-want-you-to-like-me”.  I
couldn’t help but to smile.  I still didn’t like him.  I spent the rest
of the day trying to offend him.  Damn if he didn’t have the sweetest
nature of anyone I had ever met.  He was wonderful to my mother, adoring
to my daughter and nice to me no matter how rude I was.  I knew he was
faking.  He had to be.  I didn’t want to like him. Mom
kept bringing him around and I continued to resist.  I was acting like a
jealous six year old, not a woman of 24, college degree in hand with
her own home and child of her own.  I was rude, vulgar and just
generally ill-mannered.  However, that didn’t stop him.  He still made
jokes at his expense, my mother’s expense, anybody really.  And I saw a
shift in my Mom.  She didn’t look tired.  She was smiling and laughing. 
Something I hadn’t seen her do in a very long time.  I begin to take a
second look at this man.  And this is what I saw.  A
slightly fluffy early-forties Gentleman in the true sense of the word. 
One that held doors open for ladies and treated them like Princesses. 
This was a man that would laugh just as loudly making fun of himself as
he would telling a joke.  He was sweet to old ladies and little
children.  My daughter had him wrapped around her little finger.  This
was a man that would chase a three-year-old girl around my Mother’s
stark-white damask couch with stamps and markers, both of their skin
covered in ink, and make my Mom laugh about it.  He didn’t push me to
like him.  He didn’t have to.  He had what some people would call an
infectious personality.  He had friends out of the woodwork.  Everyone
knew him and if you knew him, you loved him.  I started
to come around.  I found myself seeking him out at gatherings so I
could listen to his Air Force stories, racing stories, hell, any story. 
He has a way of saying things that make you want to listen.  But I
hadn’t fallen for him completely, yet.  As far as being
an adult is concerned, I am very mature in many aspects.  However, I am
still terrified of my Mom.  I got in some trouble.  I needed help.  I
had nowhere to turn except to my Mother.  I bit the bullet and called
the house.  He answered.  I was in tears, near hysteria.  He pleaded
with me to tell him what was wrong, so I did.  I poured the whole story
out, every last detail, down to the fact that I was scared to tell my
Mom.  And he said six simple words: I love you.  Let me help.   
Now this is the point of the story where you are supposed to become
skeptical.  Is he just helping to win my favor?  Let me explain
something.  I wasn’t a child.  My Mom was a Grandmother of 42.  She had a
career and her own home.  I lived an hour away.  What in the world did
he care if I liked him?  My Mom had made it obvious that she was going
to be with him if I liked it or not.  He had nothing to gain from me. 
So I took his help that day, albeit reluctantly.  He has never thrown it
in my face.  He has never held it over me.  Plus, he never mentioned it
to my Mother.  I fell in love with him from that moment.  For once in
my adult life I had someone to lean on.  He didn’t want anything from
me.  He didn’t need anything from me.  All he has done is love me.