I had been a widow for a long time, so dating apps didn't intimidate me. I moved through them like a fish in water. However, as long as my daughter was still living at home, I was too self-conscious to use the computer when she was around.
Chloe, a straight-A student and valedictorian, got into a prestigious university in New York on a full scholarship. We were both looking forward to total freedom. Remembering my own youth and the stifling control of my overbearing parents, I didn't want to ruin my daughter's best years. So, I promised to send her extra cash and waved goodbye as her plane took off.
Chloe excelled in her classes and never asked for much money; she worked a side job writing essays and prep materials for wealthy, struggling students. She said it helped her master the subjects while building a network of connections.
At some point, my daughter set her social media profiles to private. I could no longer see her photos, and I only learned about her life through our weekly video calls. Once, Chloe let it slip that she was seeing someone. She wouldn't say who, though, fearing I wouldn't like her boyfriend. Besides, she wasn't planning on getting married yet. If she ever did, she promised I'd be the first to know. We left it at that.
At the time, I didn't have much headspace for her love life because I was drowning in a whirlpool of passion myself. I'd met a decent man my age on a dating site. Mark was American but lived in the coastal town of Kotor, Montenegro. His mother, an Italian woman who had married an American while studying in Boston, had given him his name. She still lived in the States, but after Mark visited his ancestral roots once, he was so enchanted that he moved to the shores of that beautiful Mediterranean country, though he kept his U.S. citizenship.
He ran a small tourism business there—specifically, personalized photo souvenirs. You know the type: you get your picture taken at a historic site or a theme park, and a few minutes later, you have your photo on a magnet, a plate, a keychain, or even a pillow. Mark knew how to please his customers. Business was booming, and he could afford to pursue more than just a virtual romance. Within a month, my digital flame flew across the ocean to my quiet suburban town just to see me in person.
Before him, I'd met up with a few guys from the site, but things never went past a couple of dates. Either I didn't feel the spark or they didn't—the usual story. I didn't let it get to me. I also never invited anyone to my house to avoid neighborhood gossip and prying questions. I hadn't even given Mark my address, though I'd been honest about my city when I registered. Then, one sunny February morning—before any of us knew the chaos the coming lockdowns would bring—I was woken up by a phone call.
"Elena? I'm here. I'm inviting you out to brunch."
Half-asleep, I couldn't process it. Who? Where? What restaurant? Mark patiently explained who he was, where he was staying, and what time he wanted to meet. I was horrified.
"In two hours? I won't even have time to get ready!"
He laughed. "Sweetheart, forget the hair salon and the stylists. Just be yourself. I just want to look into your eyes, and I have a flight back at noon. Work calls."
I didn't know whether to be annoyed or charmed. Then I realized how incredibly romantic it was—to fall in love online and have someone fly thousands of miles just for breakfast.
Mark picked the best bistro in town. A massive bouquet of pink roses and a thick envelope were waiting for me at the table. Mark kissed my fingers and said, "Elena, I'm crazy about you! You're a hundred times more beautiful than you were on screen. Come visit me. I'm inviting you for a week in the most beautiful city in Montenegro! I'm not asking for anything else—just come and take a break from the daily grind. I want to look at you and thank the heavens for the moment I saw your profile. Don't worry about the money; this—" he pushed the envelope toward me—"will cover everything: your passport, a new suitcase, and a whole new wardrobe."
I looked at this man—the embodiment of every woman's dream—and nearly died of delight. I was just an ordinary teacher, yet this gorgeous man who looked like a Hollywood lead was calling me "sweetheart" and begging me to visit.
I already had a passport, so I squared things away at work in a couple of days and flew out to see my friend—or rather, my lover—as a surprise. Mark booked me a room in a hotel right on the water. During the day, we wandered the ancient cobblestone streets of the Old Town, kissed under the fortress walls, and admired the mountains reflecting in the Bay of Kotor. I was happy, no strings attached. I was terrified of scaring away this bird of paradise that had accidentally landed in my palm, so I told Mark I wasn't looking for a life partner. I told him that if we enjoyed each other, we should just keep it casual. I rambled on about how he needed a younger woman to start a family with, but as long as he was single, I didn't want to turn down such a gift from fate.
***
That week flew by far too fast. We agreed to meet again in a month; we wanted to visit Italy. But by mid-March, the borders closed. For weeks, I was a nervous wreck, and I completely forgot that my period was late. It only hit me when a brutal wave of morning sickness started. It was overwhelming. I was forty-five, husbandless, and pregnant by a man I met on the internet. I didn't know what to do. In the end, I decided to have the baby. Women older than me did it all the time. Chloe was grown. She'd get married and have her own kids soon enough. I'd be left alone to grow old, and Chloe had already made it clear she was never moving back to our small town. So, I decided to have a child for myself. Two is better than one.
I knew I wasn't a "match" for Mark. Wealthy and charismatic, he viewed me as a travel companion, a pleasant conversationalist, a beautiful woman for a week. Yes, he called me "sweetheart," but it didn't mean anything permanent. We continued to chat online.
I also kept in touch with Chloe through video calls. My pregnancy was going smoothly. The morning sickness passed quickly, and I carried the baby very "neatly"—the bump was mostly internal. During my first pregnancy, I barely looked pregnant even when I went on maternity leave; my coworkers were convinced I'd bribed the doctors just to get time off. Over the years, I'd gained weight, moving up to a size 14 or 16, so the extra fullness was almost invisible. In September, I planned to inform my principal and take my leave. But at the end of the month, Chloe called to say she was getting married. Her fiancé, Tyler, was a New Yorker. The wedding was happening soon because Chloe was pregnant and due for leave herself.
"And now, Mom, I want you to meet Ty. I hope you'll understand. I didn't want to tell you about him earlier because he's... well, he's old enough to be my father. Но you'll see, he's the best man in the world!"
Chloe tilted the screen slightly and stood up from the table, awkwardly bracing her protruding belly, and called out, "Ty! Come here, Mom wants to meet you!"
Mark walked out of the kitchen. I recoiled from the screen, covering my face with my hands. My "hero," smiling, said, "Good afternoon. My name is Tyler. I love your daughter and I'm asking for her hand."
Without showing my face, I tilted my camera down and said, "Chloe, you have my blessing. I wish you both happiness. I can't talk right now, I'm so sorry!" and I slammed the laptop shut.
I cried all night. My hope for happiness died right there. Of course, in my fantasies, I had imagined how I would one day, as if by accident, tell my love that we were having a son. And he would rush to me, sweep me up, and take me to the altar. He did rush. But he was sweeping up my daughter. How could this happen?
***
Just as dawn broke, the doorbell rang. Chloe and Tyler were standing on the porch. My daughter eyed my stomach, which was now impossible to hide.
"So that's why you didn't want to talk, Mom! Were you afraid I wouldn't invite you to the wedding? That I'd be embarrassed by you? Honey, I don't care what you do or who you love. You're my mom, my one and only. You're the best." She hugged me. "How far along are you?"
I forced out the words. "Seven months."
The look of disgusted irony in Mark's eyes shifted to pure shock. "Seven?!"
"You can barely see the bump," I finished for him. "It's just how my body handles it. It's rare, but it happens."
I led my daughter into the living room and sat her on the sofa. "Why did you rush over here in your condition? You need to rest."
Chloe laughed. "Ty was worried that you wouldn't talk to him. His mother is very traditional and wants everything done by the book—meeting the parents, the whole formal wedding. If you weren't there, she'd think you were against it."
I assured her I wasn't. They left shortly after, but that evening, I had to host another guest.
Mark entered the apartment, dark and silent. I made coffee. He began:
"I'm sorry. For years, I basically lived on that site. I invited women, girls... I could afford the whim. Not one of them turned down the trip; not one of them turned down the money. I had a very low opinion of women. Until I met Chloe. Yes, she flew out to see me, literally a week after you did, but she was different. It was like she was made for me! Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you. I don't mean to say you're like the others—indiscriminate or gold-digging..."
I sighed. "But that is exactly what you just said."
Mark shrugged. "When Chloe told me she was pregnant, I never doubted for a second the baby was mine. I was going crazy with the travel bans. Please, don't tell her anything! I had no idea she was your daughter. She only showed me your photo last night. I'll help you. What are you having—a boy or a girl?"
I struggled to keep from slapping him, from clawing at those arrogant, beautiful gray eyes. Instead, I called him into the room, opened my laptop, and logged into the dating site.
"Look. I have dozens of admirers. I've met many of them. I don't even know for sure who the father is. When the baby is born, maybe I'll do a DNA test. But it's definitely not you. How can I put this simply? I married young, had a kid young, and was widowed young. I never got to have my 'wild phase.' It's not just men who have midlife crises. I got caught up in a hormonal surge. The pregnancy actually helped me snap out of it. You're right about one thing, though: our little 'fling' is something my daughter doesn't need to know about. She shouldn't be stressed. Take care of her."
I quickly snapped the laptop shut so my daughter's fiancé wouldn't notice that I hadn't been on the site in months, nor had I replied to a single message since the day I met him.
Mark gave a curt goodbye and left. I didn't care what he thought of me. I only hoped the boy wouldn't look like him; otherwise, I'd have a whole new set of questions to answer.
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