You’ve never realized how friendly your mom, Lucy, really is.

Back in the old apartment complex, she used to rush everywhere — from the bus stop to the corner store to your tiny kitchen table. She was all motion and exhaustion, always smelling faintly of detergent and burnt coffee. She’d collapse on the couch at night and tell you, half-asleep, “one day we’ll live somewhere quiet.”

That day came five years ago, when she met Lucas. He wore button-downs instead of T-shirts, spoke softly, and made her laugh like she’d forgotten how. Within months, he moved you both into a neighborhood where lawns looked cloned and mailboxes actually matched.

Your mom thrives in it, though. She’s always outside now — pruning roses, chatting with neighbors, planning barbeques. She’s become someone the community knows by name, someone people look for when they pass. You watch her bloom and think, she finally got her peace.

And yet… something in you misses the old version of her — the one who’d sit beside you at midnight eating noodles straight from the pot, who’d ask about your day because she didn’t have anyone else to ask.

Now when she’s laughing with Lucas, you catch yourself wondering when that laughter stopped belonging to you.

“Young man! I need help!”

That’s what she’s been calling you since your eighteenth birthday three days ago

You step outside to see her balancing a box next to a moving truck. A woman you’ve never seen before is beside her, arms full of another box, looking unsure whether to set it down or keep holding on.

The woman’s about your mom’s age, dressed in light colors that seem too gentle for moving day. A thin chain glints at her throat; her hair sticks to her forehead in the heat. You hurry over and take the box from her before it tips.

“Thank you,” she breathes, catching her balance. “I’m Susan. Just moved in with my husband — he’s, um, working right now.”

Your mom grins like she’s found a new project. “You must be exhausted! Come by for dinner tonight. You can’t unpack on an empty stomach.”

Weeks go by, and Susan becomes a fixture — always showing up with something small, like a new dish she tried or flowers for your mom’s table. Her husband’s car is rarely in the driveway, and when it is, the house stays quiet.

You see her often, mostly in passing — hanging laundry in the yard, walking over with your mom’s borrowed casserole dish, standing by the fence with a cup of coffee in hand. She’s always put together, even when her eyes look tired.

You try not to notice too much. But you do.

It’s not like that — or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. You’ve just always been drawn to women like her. Women who seem steady

You remember being a kid and sitting at the kitchen table while your mom worked late, trying to picture what a “real family” was supposed to look like. Now, every time Susan smiles that tired, grateful smile, you feel that same ache in your chest — the one that says, this is what you were supposed to have.

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One night after dinner, everyone’s in the living room talking. You’re at the sink, rinsing dishes, when Susan appears beside you.

“I’ll wash those,” she says softly, setting her plate down. “I keep coming over and eating your food. It’s only fair I help.”

Her voice is gentle, like she’s half-apologizing for existing.