I sat in my car at the edge of the park, dreading the holiday dinner ahead — the questions, the jokes about my “mysterious dating life,” and the inevitable talk of marriage and children. This year, I couldn’t face it.
Then I saw him: a man alone on a weathered bench, coat frayed, posture proud despite the wear of life. An idea struck — reckless, absurd, but perfect. What if I showed up with a fake fiancé to silence my family for one night?
Before I could reconsider, I crossed the grass. “Would you pretend to be my fiancé for the weekend? In exchange, a place to stay, clothes, and meals.” He studied me, then smiled faintly. “Okay.”
Back at my apartment, I found him clean clothes. After a shower, he introduced himself as Christopher. Over dinner, I learned he loved old westerns, read Hemingway, and had a dry humor that caught me off guard.
The next day, I took him for a haircut and a suit. At dinner, my parents seemed impressed — until my mother’s expression shifted. “You look familiar,” she said. Then: “What did you do before meeting Mia?” He paused, then spoke of a car accident that had changed his life.
When he stepped away, my mother told me the truth: she’d been in that accident. She called him dangerous. Outside, Christopher explained — his wife had died, he’d been on medication, and fate had been cruel. He handed me his late wife’s ring, thanking me for letting him feel human again, then walked away.
Days later, I placed an ad in the paper asking him to meet me. On the second night, he appeared. I told him everything — my mother’s role, her apology.
When we left together, his hand found mine. This wasn’t pretending anymore.
