My Friend

He introduced me as "my friend" to his mum. We'd been sleeping together for five months.

His name was Marcus. We never had a label. He liked it that way. "Why ruin it?" he'd say, tracing a finger down my arm. And I'd say, "Yeah, totally," because I'm a girl who'd rather be easy than lose him.

He asked me to meet his mum. I was thrilled. A real milestone. I wore my best dress. Practised my smile. Brought flowers.

At the door, his mum, a tiny woman with silver hair, opened it. Marcus said, "Mum, this is my friend. Ella."

Friend. A word with the weight of a feather.

I forced a smile. "Hi, so nice to meet you."

His mum looked at me, then at him. Then she smiled in a way that felt strangely knowing.

Dinner was fine. Polite. Lots of small talk. He barely touched my hand.

At the end, while he was in the garden, I helped his mum with the dishes.

"He doesn't bring girls home," she said quietly.

I laughed. "I'm just a friend."

She opened the fridge. Behind a jar of pickles, pinned under a magnet, a photo. Me. A candid shot, laughing at a market stall.

"He talks about you every day," she said. "He just can't say it to your face."

I looked at the photo.

He'd told his mum everything.

He'd just never told me.