text: “Fu-“ I started to say, staring down at the now large stain of red wine spilling across the crisp white linen of the brand new table cloth I had just purchased. “-dge.” I finished after a moment, deflated. I contemplated the perfect setting of plate, silverware, napkins, and now one poured glass of wine. It had taken a time to set everything up perfectly, and now one rogue elbow had sent the entire evening into disarray. I briefly considered ripping the tablecloth off of the table, like you see sometimes in the movies. One quick slip and somehow everything remains in place. I quickly dismiss this thought, and I set myself to painstakingly taking pieces off, one at a time, from the table that had been so close to being finished. Just as I was beginning to take things off, I heard the knock I had been anticipating. I quickly smoothed my skirt, cringing when I saw a spot of red wine had managed to catch the hem of it. I rolled my eyes to myself and quickly flitted to the door to open it. Women my age don’t need to be wearing skirts or setting up fancy dates. Women my age ought to be settled with their husbands of thirty years and celebrating the kids they raised together. But not me. My ex was now honeymooning with his twenty-something bride in Cancun. And I was setting up dates with online strangers and watching our only son get married off at the same time as his dad. “Evening,” Paul said gruffly, and handed out a half dozen roses still packaged in store plastic. I took the flowers and smiled. Paul and I had only been seeing each other a couple of weeks. We had exchanged past lives, he had never been married and never had children. Me with an ex and a son. Both of us somehow alone for the upcoming sweethearts’ holiday. We hadn’t had the chance to speak too much in person, but had managed to set boundaries for the evening: no pressure, no physical expectations. “Thanks so much.” I cooed, ushering him inside and helping him take off his jacket. “I apologize, I had a little spill earlier and it has disrupted the ambiance of the evening.” Paul took in the scene before him: glasses and plates now haphazardly balancing on chairs, the red wine stain settled largely across the surface of the table. “Didn’t have to go all-out on account of me.” He noted, not making a single move towards the table to help. I continued with my maneuvering. He took no notice of the framed photos on the walls of the living room, and instead took a look at the television sitting stubbornly on an old entertainment center I ended up with in the divorce. “Haven’t got it mounted, hm?” He remarked, pointing at the old TV. “It can’t be more than, what, 32 inch TV?” “I’m not sure,” I said, trying to keep my voice cool as I was finally able to rip the white cloth from the table. “I don’t really watch TV.” He said nothing, but began inspecting the television further. I made about setting things back on the table without a tablecloth, and made no attempt to be as precise as before. “I made roasted chicken with herbed potatoes and green beans.” I muttered, walking in to the kitchen. “That’s mighty fine of you,” He said, finally directing his attention back to me. Or the food. I softened a bit, but that quickly dissolved when he took a seat at the table. Not that I was asking for help or anything, but an offer would have been nice. He was facing the kitchen, and looking over the décor, not really focusing on the knickknacks but lost in thought. I began plating up dinner for the both of us, at this point ready for the evening to be over with. I put on a fake smile as I sat food down in front of Paul, and then seated myself on the opposite side of the table. “Looks mighty fine indeed, Melinda.” He remarked before getting to work tearing his chicken to shreds. I pursed my lips and placed a napkin in my lap before beginning to cut my own. “So, Paul, was work alright for you today?” I tried making conversation, taking a sip of red wine from my glass. “It was,” He answered, never looking up from his plate. “Just another day.” I began rethinking our previous dates. The movies had allowed for no conversation, and restaurants had allowed for little personal talk. He sucked down his glass of red wine quickly. When he finished, he looked at it, kind of puzzled, before looking at me. “Is there...?” He started, glancing again to the empty glass, as if expecting it to magically fill itself. “Oh, I’m sorry, do you want me to refill it for you?” I responded, rather testily. “Oh, no, no.” He said quickly, and began standing. “I would love some more though. In the fridge?” “Yes.” I said, not looking up from my chicken. He walked around out of eyesight and I listened to him humming faintly as he opened up the fridge and unstopped the red wine bottle. I listened as he placed the bottle down on the counter, and then no movement followed. No fridge reopening. No footsteps. Nothing. I finally glanced back and saw that he was staring directly behind me into the living room. Following his gaze, I saw the new portrait that hung of my son and his new bride. I smiled in spite of myself, giddy with happiness for my child. “Is that...?” He asked, pointing to the picture holding his fascination. “My son.” I said, nodding. Paul finally unhitched himself from the counter. He left his wine glass and open bottle behind, and simply tramped over closer to the portrait on the wall. “He just got married last month.” There was quiet for a while. Paul studied the picture hard. “Your son?” He asked, uncertain. “Yes...” I said slowly, not fully understanding the question. “Well, we adopted him when he was a baby. My ex-husband and I did.” Paul nodded thoughtfully at this, still staring. “He’s not a customer of yours?” I asked quickly, unable to imagine my son in his little shoe shop. “Oh, no, no.” He said too quickly. He turned to look at me briefly before turning right back to the photograph. “Was he born in ’93?” “He was. September.” I nodded, frowning. “27 th his birthday?” Paul asked. “Yes...” I continued, my meal now completely abandoned as I stared at the back of Paul’s head. Several more uncomfortable moments passed before Paul seemed to remember himself. He offered no more information other than remarking, “Mighty handsome young man.” He sat back down at the table, but made no attempt to reclaim the chicken that he had torn to pieces. Even then, he kept glancing back to look at the portrait on the wall. “You said he’s not a customer?” I asked, nudging for more information. “No, no...” He hesitated, meeting my eyes for the first time. “I...I had a son. I didn’t know about him. By the time I knew he existed his mother had already placed him up for adoption and was long gone. The papers were all closed up. No way for me to...to get him or even...meet him...” He glanced back again at the photo, and now clear tears had welled up in his eyes. “I think...I think that might be...him.” My fork clattered to the plate as Paul embarrassedly brushed a tear from his eye. “Your...your son ?” I asked finally. “But it...it was a closed adoption. We were told that his biological father was dead and that his mother was too young to care for him. You think that Jonah is...?” “Well, the last part was true enough. Only 18 at the time. Her family hid him from me up until her passing in ’95. She was bad into drugs, unfortunately. It’s why we didn’t work out in the first place. It was only then, at her funeral, that they waved my son’s birth in front of me. Like her death was all my fault. That...” He abruptly stopped, waved it off. His head hung low and he sniffled. “He looks just like his mother. Just like her. Except for the eyes.” He pointed at his own eyes in demonstration. “You...?” I was having a hard time processing the information. My ex would be furious to find out this man was walking about the world, longing for the son he never got the chance to raise. The son we raised. “I’m not sure what to say.” I finally sputtered. “Can you please tell me about him?” The look in his eyes was so deeply wounded, and moving. It hurt to look at him. “Jonah...our son, he’s an engineer.” “Jonah?” “Yes. Jonah Grey. We named him after...the Bible story, you know? And grey is a family name.” “Right.” “He was on the football team in high school, but he also loved choir.” Paul made no effort to conceal his tears now as they flowed from his eyes. “His mom loved to sing.” He whispered. “He graduated from State a few years back with a Bachelor’s degree and they’ve just bought a house about an hour away from here.” “That’s wonderful.” Paul sniffled. “Melinda, I am so sorry, but I think my head isn’t in the right place to continue this evening. I know you have worked hard-“ “Oh, no. Please. Don’t be silly.” I countered, standing as he did. My face was flushed with all of this information, and I was flustered beyond logical reasoning. “I can understand this is...well, I know it’s quite a shock for me. So I can’t imagine...” The big problem with this was...we had never told Jonah the truth about his adoption. And now...? Sure, he was a 28 year old man with a wife. He would need real medical information and history and background, especially if he and his wife planned on having children of their own. “I’ll be in touch, Melinda, if that’s alright.” He said as he made his way to the door. He grabbed his coat quickly, and I began fighting back my own emotion. No doubt this man wanted to see his son. And yet he had not asked, had not even hinted. “Of course, Paul. Maybe...maybe we can work something...out.” Paul met my eyes, glistening and sad. “Does he know?” He asked quietly. “N-no, he doesn’t.” I stammered. “And I...I’m not sure...” “I understand.” He answered quickly. He put on his coat and opened the door. There, on the other side, however, was my son. “Oh, sorry.” Jonah said, mildly confused. He looked behind Paul to me and halfway waved. “Mom? I didn’t mean to interrupt.” “Jonah!” I stuttered, bypassing Paul to usher him into the house. “Jonah, what on earth are you doing here?” “Jamie had to work tonight,” He started, staring at Paul in confusion. “I wanted to surprise you. Stop by and wish a Happy Valentine’s to my first love.” He kissed me on the cheek and handed me a box of chocolates. “I know you said you’re trying to stay away from sugar, but these don’t count because they’re for Valentine’s Day.” “She told me she was staying away from sugar, too.” Paul commented. He stared at Jonah as if he was the Holy Grail itself. “Apologies, I’m Jonah. Mom, where are your manners?” Jonah teased as he reached out for Paul’s hand. “And you are...?” “Paul.” He answered gruffly. Taking the hand in his own and shaking it firmly. “And is he your...?” Jonah asked, turning to me. “Friend.” I answered sharply. “We’re just friends, Jonah.” “I don’t invite friends over on Valentine’s Day, Mom.” He continued to tease. “I wouldn’t have interrupted had I known you already had company today.” “Paul was just leaving...” I started, but hesitated. “But...?” How could he leave now, when the son whom he’d pondered about and longed for his entire adult life had magically appeared before him? “I think I’ll stay for another drink, Melinda. Get to know your boy.” Paul said quietly. Jonah accepted this without a second thought and maneuvered past me and through to the kitchen, already spiritedly talking about his upcoming weekend as he poured himself a glass of wine. Paul eyed me, silently asking permission to know the son I raised. After hardly any deliberation, I gave a quick nod. Paul walked back in as if he was on a cloud. He hardly spoke a word all evening, but only listened, enamored by Jonah. Jonah made attempts at polite conversation with Paul, but Paul had no interest in saying a word. He only found himself enraptured by my son. His son. By the end of the evening, when it came time for Jonah to leave, Paul had never gave an inkling as to why he was really there. They shook hands once more, and Jonah mentioned seeing the both of us again real soon, before making his departure. Paul sat, stoned faced, on the couch for a long time to come. I sat in silence with him, feeling a mix of warmth and guilt. Warmth that Paul got to see a glimpse of the sweet son I had raised, guilt that Paul hadn’t received the chance to raise him. “Twenty six years.” He whispered finally. “I have looked for my son...for twenty six years. From the moment I knew of his existence...” He finally stood, having never even removed his coat from his earlier attempted getaway. I had no idea what to say. He made his way to the door, gripped the doorknob firmly and turned. “Thank you, Melinda.” He said quietly. And then he left, quietly shutting the door behind him.