“That’s a lot of responsibility.”

“She’s an incredible mother,” I said. “And her son… he’s special.”

“I’m sure she appreciates the help,” my mother replied.

She never said Anna’s name again.

Weeks later, I introduced them anyway. A small café. Anna arrived late, flustered, with her son Aaron holding her hand. My mother greeted her politely—without warmth.

She asked Aaron one question.

“What’s your favorite subject?”

“Art.”

She rolled her eyes and ignored him for the rest of the visit. When the bill came, she paid only for herself.

In the car, Anna said quietly, “She doesn’t like me.”

“She doesn’t know you,” I replied.

“She doesn’t want to.”

Two years later, I told my mother I’d proposed.

“If you marry her,” she said flatly, “don’t ever ask me for anything again. You’re choosing that life.”

I waited for doubt. It never came.