When Javier first told me his mom would be staying with us for “just a week,” I didn’t argue. She’d just had hip surgery and couldn’t manage stairs for a while. It made sense. We’re the only ones in the family with a one-story house.
So, I cleared out my little workspace for her. Got her some lavender candles. Even picked up an orthopedic pillow. I was really trying to be thoughtful.
The first week? Totally manageable. She mostly watched her cooking shows and corrected how I made coffee—apparently I “bruise the beans,” whatever that means. Week two? She started leaving little notes on how to load the dishwasher “more logically.” By the third week, she was rearranging the pantry “so it feels more intuitive.”
I told Javier, “Babe, this isn’t feeling temporary anymore.” He just sighed and said she “needed a little more time.”
She’s 67, kind of blonde, still dabs on perfume like she’s getting ready for a cruise. But don’t let the gentle vibe fool you—she knows how to stake a claim. Every time I asked when she planned to head back home, she had a new excuse.
“The water heater’s acting up.”
“My neighbor’s been giving me weird vibes.”
“I’m still not totally comfortable sleeping alone.”
She had a whole closet full of robes by then. Started using “we” when talking about dinner. And Javier? Completely useless. Stuck in the middle between me and the woman who brought him into the world.
Then last night, I found something in the laundry that made my stomach drop. It wasn’t hers. It wasn’t mine. And it definitely shouldn’t have been there.
It was a pair of men’s socks. Not Javier’s.
They were smaller, maybe a size 8, and bright red with little saxophones on them. Javier wears size 12 and strictly sticks to those dull gray Costco socks.
At first, I thought maybe they got mixed in somehow. Maybe from a neighbor or laundry mix-up? But no. We have our own washer and dryer. I asked Javier if he recognized them—he just stared at me.
“Those aren’t mine. Never seen them before,” he said.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. My brain went into overdrive, imagining every possible scenario. Was she dating someone? Sneaking him in when we were gone? Was I going nuts?
The next morning, I watched her carefully as she made her “signature oatmeal” and chatted about a rerun of *Wheel of Fortune*. Everything seemed totally normal. She wore her fluffy blue robe and those pink-bowed slippers. But I noticed a phone peeking out of her pocket.
A phone that definitely wasn’t her usual flip phone.
Later that day, when she went out “for a walk,” I confronted Javier: “Is your mom seeing someone?”
He looked at me, shocked. “What? No. She just had surgery. Why would you even—?”
I told him about the socks. The phone. The hushed whispers I’d heard the night before when she was supposedly asleep.
“I don’t know, Javi. Something’s not adding up.”
He brushed it off at first. Said I was just stressed and overthinking. But that night, we both heard it—a soft knock at the back door around 11:30 p.m. Then whispers. Then silence.
The next morning, she was glowing. Making waffles, singing *Ain’t No Mountain High Enough*. I asked what had her in such a good mood, and she smiled and said, “A woman should always start her day with a little joy.”
Two days later, the truth came out—but not from her. From **him**.
I came home early and walked into the kitchen—and there he was. A man. Mid-sixties maybe, with tan skin, curly gray hair under a fishing hat, pouring himself a glass of lemonade like he lived there. And then she came strolling in from the hallway in a sundress and said, “Oh! You’re home early!”
She looked like a teenager caught sneaking a boy in. The man gave me a sheepish grin and said, “Hi, I’m Randall.”
Turns out Randall was her high school sweetheart—recently widowed—and they’d run into each other at a grocery store about three months ago. They’d been secretly seeing each other because, in her words, “I didn’t want you two thinking I was being silly at my age.”
Javier was speechless. So was I. But after the shock wore off, I had to admit—it all made sense. The secret smiles. The late-night “walks.” The second phone.
And then she hit us with the real kicker: “Randall and I are thinking about getting a place together. Maybe in Arizona. Somewhere with a garden.”
Just like that, she packed up her robes, kissed us both on the cheek, and left.
I stood at the doorway blinking, unsure if I felt relieved, amused, or completely bewildered.
But I realized something: we all want companionship. No matter how old we get. She wasn’t trying to take over our lives—she just didn’t know how to start her next chapter alone. And while it was chaotic and kind of exhausting, I’m glad she gave herself the chance to be happy again.
If I learned anything from this whole thing, it’s that love doesn’t have an expiration date.
Sure, those were six chaotic months. But now I’ve got my workspace back… and a soft spot for red socks with saxophones.