The Space Between Us

Part 1: Surveillance

“Sophie, darling, did you remember your umbrella? The forecast says forty percent chance of showers today.”

I sighed and glanced at my phone. My mother had already called twice this morning, and it wasn’t even 8 AM yet. At thirty-five years old, I still couldn’t escape her daily weather updates.

“Yes, Mom. I have an umbrella, a raincoat, waterproof shoes, and I’ve waterproofed my bag. I even have a change of clothes at the office.”

“Well, you never know with these forecasts. Remember when you got caught in that downpour three years ago and caught pneumonia?”

“It was a cold, Mom. Not pneumonia.”

“It could have been pneumonia! Dr. Winters said your lungs sounded congested.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling the familiar tension headache beginning to form. “Mom, I really have to go. I have a presentation in thirty minutes.”

“Alright, sweetie. Good luck! Call me when you’re done, and we can discuss what you’re making for dinner. I found this wonderful new recipe for quinoa—”

“Bye, Mom. Love you.” I hung up before she could continue, feeling the usual mix of guilt and relief that followed our conversations.

My mother, Diana Chen, was the embodiment of helicopter parenting before the term was even coined. From monitoring my food intake to installing a tracking app on my phone (which I’d only recently managed to “accidentally” disable), her love came with constant surveillance.

As I walked to the subway station, my phone buzzed with a text message.

Did you take your vitamins this morning? The zinc ones, not just the multivitamin. Your immune system needs extra support during presentation days.

I didn’t bother responding. Another text quickly followed.

I left a package at your door this morning. Immune-boosting tea and some homemade energy balls. Much better than those processed protein bars you buy.

I loved my mother—deeply, truly—but sometimes I fantasized about moving to a remote island with no cell service. Of course, knowing my mom, she’d probably learn to send smoke signals or train carrier pigeons to check if I was wearing sunscreen.

The irony wasn’t lost on me that as the head curator at the Metropolitan Museum’s Asian Art department, I spent my days preserving and protecting priceless artifacts, while unable to preserve the boundaries of my own life.

My presentation went well, despite the incessant buzzing of my phone in my pocket. Six text messages and two missed calls by the time I finished. A new record.

“Your mother again?” asked Raj, my assistant curator, as we walked back to our offices.

“How did you guess?” I rolled my eyes, scrolling through the messages. “She wants to know if I remembered to use my inhaler before the presentation.”

“You don’t have asthma.”

“I had a cough when I was seven. In her mind, that equates to lifelong respiratory issues.”

Raj laughed, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “At least she cares. My mother stopped calling me daily once I got married. Now she just criticizes my wife’s cooking instead.”

“That’s the dream,” I said, only half-joking. “Your mother actually respects boundaries.”

“Cultural difference, perhaps. My mother believes once her son is married, he becomes his wife’s problem.”

“While my Chinese mother believes I’ll be her baby until one of us dies—probably me, from stress-induced hypertension.”

We parted ways at my office door. Inside, I collapsed into my chair and turned to the window, gazing out at the slice of Central Park visible from my fifth-floor vantage point. The trees were just beginning to blush with autumn colors, a reminder that time was passing, life was moving forward—even if mine sometimes felt stuck in a holding pattern of maternal supervision.

At lunchtime, my phone rang again. With a resigned sigh, I answered.

“Yes, Mom, I’m eating lunch. Yes, it includes protein. No, it’s not from a street vendor.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then a male voice, warm and amused, replied, “Well, that’s good to know, but I was actually calling to ask about the Tang Dynasty exhibition proposal.”

Heat rushed to my face. “Director Hayes! I’m so sorry—I thought you were my mother.”

“I’ve been called many things in my career, but ‘Mom’ is definitely a first.” His chuckle was deep and pleasant. “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time?”

“Not at all,” I said, attempting to regain my professional composure. “What can I help you with?”

As James Hayes, the museum’s director, discussed the upcoming exhibition, I found myself distracted by the timbre of his voice. We’d worked together for three years, but our interactions had always been strictly professional and usually in group settings. This was perhaps the longest one-on-one conversation we’d had.

“So, do you think you can have the revised proposal on my desk by next Friday?” he asked, pulling me back to the conversation.

“Absolutely. I’ve already started researching the Tang court’s influence on Japanese art. I think it would make a fascinating comparative exhibit.”

“Excellent. I look forward to seeing what you come up with.” There was a brief pause. “And Sophie? Make sure you eat something not from a street vendor. Wouldn’t want to worry your mother.”

I could hear the smile in his voice before he hung up. Great. Even my boss now knew about my mother’s overbearing tendencies.

After work, I stopped by my apartment to drop off my bag before heading to my mother’s house for our weekly Friday dinner—a tradition as unbreakable as a blood oath. The package she’d mentioned was indeed waiting by my door: a cloth bag containing mason jars of tea and little plastic containers of what looked like brown pebbles but were presumably her “energy balls.”

My apartment was my sanctuary—the one place where my mother’s influence was minimal. I’d decorated it with artifacts from my travels, artwork from friends, and furniture I’d selected myself. It was eclectic, perhaps a bit cluttered, but every item had meaning to me. The only concession to my mother’s preferences was the air purifier humming quietly in the corner—a gift she’d insisted on after declaring my apartment “distressingly dry.”

I placed the bag on my kitchen counter and quickly changed into more comfortable clothes before heading back out. My mother lived in Queens, in the house where I’d grown up, which meant a forty-minute subway ride each way. As I traveled, I mentally prepared myself for the usual interrogation: my diet, my exercise habits, my perpetual singlehood, and lately, my “worrying” gray hairs (all three of them).

Diana Chen’s house was a modest two-story colonial on a quiet street in Flushing. The garden was meticulously maintained—not by a service, but by my mother’s own hands, despite her advancing age. At sixty-eight, she had more energy than most people half her age.

I didn’t bother knocking. This had been my home for eighteen years, and despite moving out nearly seventeen years ago, my mother still considered it “our house.”

“Mom, I’m here,” I called out, the familiar scent of ginger and garlic enveloping me as I stepped inside.

“In the kitchen! Perfect timing—the fish is just done.”

I found her standing over the stove, her small frame dwarfed by the large apron she wore. Her hair, once jet black like mine, was now streaked with silver, though she steadfastly refused to color it. “Only vain people dye their hair,” she’d declare, while in the same breath suggesting I might want to consider covering my few gray strands.

“Hi, Mom.” I leaned down to kiss her cheek. Despite my frustrations, the sight of her always warmed my heart. She’d raised me alone after my father died when I was just ten, working two jobs to ensure I had opportunities he would have wanted for me.

“Did you get the tea I left? Your voice sounded raspy when we talked this morning.”

“My voice is fine, and yes, I got the tea. Thank you.”

She waved off my thanks with a spatula. “It’s nothing. Now sit, sit. Tell me about your presentation. Did anyone ask difficult questions? Did you remember to speak slowly?”

And so began the debriefing. I dutifully recounted my day as we ate, censoring certain parts (like my embarrassing phone call with Director Hayes) while embellishing others to satisfy her curiosity. It was easier than trying to establish boundaries, a battle I’d fought and lost countless times over the years.

“Sophie,” she said during a rare pause in conversation, “I’ve been thinking.”

The serious tone in her voice made me look up from my steamed fish. “About what?”

“About finding you someone.”

I nearly choked on a snow pea. “Someone?”

“A husband, of course. What did you think I meant? A pet?” She shook her head, as if the very notion was absurd. “You’re thirty-five, Sophia. Your eggs aren’t getting any younger.”

“Mom, we’ve talked about this. I’m focusing on my career right now.”

“Career, career. A career won’t keep you warm at night. A career won’t take care of you when you’re old.”

“Pretty sure my 401(k) will help with that,” I muttered.

She ignored me, warming to her theme. “Mrs. Liu’s son just moved back from California. Divorced, but no children. He’s a dentist.”

“I’m not interested in Mrs. Liu’s son, divorced or otherwise.”

“What about that nice curator you work with? The Indian boy.”

“Raj is gay, Mom. And he has a partner.”

She waved this away as if it were an insignificant detail. “What about your boss, then? The tall one with the gray at the temples. Very distinguished.”

I nearly choked again. “Director Hayes? He’s my boss, Mom. That’s completely inappropriate.”

“Why? You’re both adults. He’s not married—I checked online.”

The thought of my mother googling James Hayes made me want to sink through the floor. “Please tell me you haven’t tried to contact him.”

She had the grace to look slightly abashed. “Of course not. But I did join the museum’s mailing list. They sent a very nice profile of him in the last newsletter.”

I closed my eyes briefly. “Mom, promise me you won’t interfere in my work life.”

“I’m not interfering! I’m just suggesting you open your eyes to the possibilities around you. You spend so much time with your old vases and scrolls, you don’t see the living, breathing men right in front of you.”

“They’re not just ‘old vases,’ they’re priceless artifacts that—” I stopped myself. This was a well-worn argument, and neither of us would concede ground. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but my personal life is my business.”

My mother’s expression softened. “I worry about you, Sophie. You work too hard. You live alone. Who takes care of you when you’re sick? Who checks if you’ve made it home safely at night?”

“I take care of myself, Mom. I’m an adult.”

“Being an adult doesn’t mean you have to be alone.” She reached across the table to pat my hand. “I just want you to be happy.”

The familiar guilt crept in. She meant well. She always meant well. “I know, Mom. And I am happy. Really.”

She didn’t look convinced but dropped the subject for the remainder of dinner. As I helped her clean up, she mentioned casually, “I’m hosting a small gathering next Saturday. Just a few friends from tai chi class, Mrs. Liu, and her son.”

I groaned inwardly. “Mom, I told you I’m not interested—”

“It’s just a casual gathering! You don’t have to marry him on the spot. Just come, be sociable, eat some good food.”

“I can’t. I have plans.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “What plans?”

I scrambled for an excuse. “I… I have a date.”

The words came out before I could stop them. My mother’s eyes widened, then narrowed suspiciously.

“A date? With whom?”

My mind raced. “Someone from work,” I said vaguely.

“The Indian boy? I thought you said he was gay.”

“No, not Raj. Someone else. You don’t know him.”

“What’s his name?”

I blurted out the first name that came to mind. “James.”

My mother’s face lit up. “James? The director? I knew it!”

“No, not—” I started to protest, then realized I’d backed myself into a corner. If I denied it was Director Hayes, I’d have to invent an entirely fictional person, which would inevitably lead to more questions I couldn’t answer.

“Yes,” I said weakly. “James Hayes. But it’s very new, and we’re keeping it quiet because of work, so please don’t mention it to anyone.”

My mother was practically glowing. “Of course, of course. Very professional. Oh, this is wonderful news, Sophie! When will you bring him to dinner?”

“It’s just one date, Mom. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“But you must have been seeing each other already, to agree to a Saturday night date.”

I hadn’t thought of that. “It’s… complicated. Look, I really need to get going. Early morning tomorrow.”

“On a Saturday?” She looked suspicious again.

“Art never sleeps,” I said lamely, gathering my purse. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

As I fled my childhood home, I realized I’d created a problem far worse than an unwanted setup with Mrs. Liu’s dentist son. I’d invented a date with my boss—a man I respected professionally but barely knew personally.

On the subway ride home, I contemplated my options. I could “break up” with imaginary James after our fictional date. But knowing my mother, she’d either try to mend the relationship or demand details about what went wrong. I could claim I’d been confused about the date, that it was actually a work meeting. But she’d see through that immediately.

By the time I reached my apartment, I’d settled on a plan: I would go out on Saturday night, take myself to dinner and a movie, and report back on my “date” with appropriate vagueness. Then, after a respectable amount of time, I’d explain that while James was wonderful, the professional complications were too great, and we’d decided to remain colleagues only.

It was a solid plan. Foolproof, even.

Until my phone buzzed with a text message from my mother:

Forgot to ask—where is James taking you on Saturday? Let me know if you need help choosing an outfit. First dates are so important!

I groaned and flopped onto my couch. This was going to be more complicated than I thought.

Part 2: The Non-Date

Saturday arrived with an unwelcome surprise: an actual event at the museum—a small reception for potential donors to the Asian Art department. I’d completely forgotten about it when fabricating my date with “James.” Normally, these events were tedious but manageable. Tonight, it was a complication I didn’t need.

My phone had been buzzing all day with texts from my mother:

What are you wearing tonight?

Does James like Chinese food? I can recommend restaurants.

Don’t order anything with garlic on a first date!

And finally, most distressingly:

I looked up the museum calendar online. There’s a reception tonight for donors. Is that your ‘date’? Will you be WORKING on your date?

I stared at the last message in horror. My mother had been researching the museum’s public events? Of course she had. Diana Chen left nothing to chance where my life was concerned.

I typed back quickly: It’s a quick appearance at the reception, then dinner after. PLEASE stop googling the museum.

Her response was immediate: Just being a supportive mother. Have fun! Use mouthwash before kissing!

I groaned and tossed my phone onto the bed, where it bounced against the three outfits I’d laid out. Despite knowing this wasn’t a real date, I was inexplicably nervous about seeing Director Hayes—James—after my fabrication. Would something in my demeanor give me away? Would he somehow sense that I’d invented a relationship between us?

“This is ridiculous,” I told my reflection as I applied mascara. “It’s just another work event. You’ll say hello, charm some donors, and leave. He’ll never know about your little white lie.”

I finally settled on a burgundy wrap dress that was formal enough for the reception but could pass for date attire if my mother demanded photographic evidence later. With my hair swept into a neat updo and minimal jewelry, I looked professional but not overly stuffy.

The museum after hours had a different energy—quieter, more reverent, the art taking on new dimensions in the softened lighting. The reception was being held in the atrium adjacent to the Asian Art wing, allowing guests to wander through the exhibits with champagne in hand.

I arrived early to ensure everything was in place, checking the position of the information cards I’d prepared about our upcoming acquisitions and making sure the catering staff knew not to place drinks near the display cases.

“Everything looks perfect, as usual.”

I turned to find James Hayes approaching, impeccable in a charcoal suit and blue tie that brought out the gray in his eyes. At forty-five, he cut an impressive figure—tall, with broad shoulders and that distinguished touch of silver at his temples that my mother had noted.

“Director Hayes,” I greeted him, suddenly conscious of my racing heart. “Thank you. I just wanted to make sure we’re highlighting the Tang Dynasty scrolls properly. They’re central to the exhibition proposal.”

“I’ve been reading your preliminary notes. Fascinating perspective on the cultural exchange between China and Japan during that period.” He gestured toward the exhibition space. “Would you mind walking me through your vision? The donors will be asking, and I’d like to articulate it as well as you would.”

“Of course.”

As we walked through the gallery, I explained my concept for the exhibition, pointing out key pieces and the narrative they created together. James listened attentively, asking insightful questions that demonstrated his genuine interest in the subject.

“You’re uniquely qualified to tell this story,” he said as we paused before a delicate silk scroll. “Your academic background in both Chinese and Japanese art history gives you perspective few others have.”

The compliment warmed me. “Thank you. It’s a dialogue between cultures that often gets oversimplified. I want to show the nuance, the give and take.”

Something in his expression shifted, a subtle softening around the eyes. “That’s what makes you such an asset to this institution, Sophie. You see the conversations between artifacts, not just their individual value.”

The way he said my name—casually, warmly—made me realize he rarely used it. In our professional interactions, it was usually “Dr. Chen” or simply courteous nods of acknowledgment across meeting tables.

Donors began arriving before I could dwell on this observation, and we fell into our professional roles—greeting guests, explaining the significance of various pieces, and subtly directing conversations toward the funding needs of the department.

Throughout the evening, I found myself hyper-aware of James’s presence in the room. The confident way he guided discussions, the respect evident in how he introduced me and my expertise to important patrons, the occasional glance we exchanged across the atrium when a particularly enthusiastic donor cornered one of us.

Two hours flew by, and as the event wound down, I found myself actually disappointed that my fake date wouldn’t be continuing into a real dinner. I was gathering my notes when James approached again.

“Successful evening, I’d say,” he remarked, loosening his tie slightly. “The Wilsons seemed particularly interested in sponsoring the conservation of the scroll collection.”

“They did,” I agreed. “Mrs. Wilson has a background in textile preservation. I think she appreciated the technical challenges we’re facing.”

He nodded, then asked unexpectedly, “Have you eaten? I realized I was so focused on the donors that I barely touched the hors d’oeuvres.”

My heart skipped. “No, I haven’t.”

“There’s a decent Chinese restaurant a few blocks away, if you’re interested. We could discuss the Wilsons’ potential contribution further.”

Was he asking me to dinner? Was this a work discussion or something more? And why was I suddenly hoping it might be the latter?

“That sounds lovely,” I heard myself say. “I just need to grab my coat.”

As we walked through the cool September evening, our conversation drifted from work to more personal topics—his background in art history, my childhood fascination with the Chinese artifacts my father had collected. I learned he’d grown up in Boston, studied at Yale, and worked at museums in Chicago and San Francisco before coming to New York five years ago.

“And you’ve been with us for what, three years now?” he asked as we were seated at a quiet corner table in the restaurant.

“Three and a half,” I confirmed. “I was at the Seattle Asian Art Museum before that.”

“What brought you back to New York?”

The question was innocent enough, but the answer was complicated. “My mother,” I admitted. “She was having some health issues. Nothing serious,” I added quickly, “but enough to make me want to be closer.”

“That’s admirable. Family is important.”

I laughed softly. “Yes, though sometimes a bit of distance is healthy too. My mother is… involved in my life.”

“Ah,” he said with a knowing smile. “Thus the lunch call today?”

I felt my cheeks warm. “You heard that, huh?”

“Just enough to gather that your mother takes a keen interest in your dietary choices.”

“And my clothing choices, my career choices, my living situation, and especially my romantic life—or lack thereof.” The words tumbled out before I could censor them.

Instead of looking uncomfortable, James seemed amused. “The universal parent-child dynamic, though perhaps more pronounced in some cultures than others.”

“Definitely pronounced in mine,” I sighed. “Don’t get me wrong—I love my mother dearly. She sacrificed everything to give me opportunities after my father died. But sometimes I feel like I’m still ten years old in her eyes.”

“It can be difficult to reset established patterns,” he observed, then added with a twinkle in his eye, “Especially when one party believes they know best.”

“Exactly!” I exclaimed, then caught myself. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t be burdening you with personal matters.”

“Not at all,” he said, his expression warm. “Contrary to museum rumors, I do exist outside of board meetings and acquisition discussions. I find your relationship with your mother rather endearing, actually.”

“You wouldn’t if you lived it,” I muttered, then immediately felt disloyal. “That came out wrong. She means well. She just… loves intensely.”

“The best parents usually do.” He studied me for a moment. “Now I’m curious—what would your mother think of this dinner?”

If only he knew. “Oh, she’d definitely read too much into it,” I said lightly. “In her mind, any male-female interaction that doesn’t involve immediate relatives has romantic potential.”

“I see.” Was it my imagination, or did his smile falter slightly? “Well, we wouldn’t want to give her the wrong impression.”

“No, we wouldn’t,” I agreed, suddenly unsure of where this conversation was heading.

The waiter’s arrival with our food provided a welcome interruption. As we ate, the conversation returned to safer ground—art, museum politics, the challenges of preservation in varying climates. By the time we finished our meal, any awkwardness had dissipated, and I was enjoying myself immensely.

“This was lovely,” I said as James paid the bill, waving away my attempt to contribute. “Thank you.”

“The pleasure was mine,” he replied. “Allow me to walk you home? Or at least to the subway?”

“I’m actually just a few blocks away,” I said. “But company would be nice.”

We strolled through the crisp evening, the city humming around us. When we reached my building, I turned to thank him again and found him standing closer than I expected, his expression unreadable in the shadows.

“Sophie,” he began, then paused. “I hope you know how much I value your work at the museum. Your passion, your expertise—they’re remarkable.”

“Thank you,” I said, wondering why his compliment felt like a prelude to something else.

He seemed to be deliberating with himself. Finally, he said, “Perhaps we could do this again sometime? Perhaps without the pretext of donor discussions?”

My heart stuttered. “You mean…?”

“Dinner. Just the two of us. If that’s something you’d be interested in.”

Was Director James Hayes asking me on a date? A real date? And was I actually considering saying yes to my boss, creating the very situation I’d fabricated to avoid my mother’s matchmaking?

“I’d like that,” I heard myself say.

His smile was warm, genuine. “Wonderful. I’ll be in touch.” He hesitated, then leaned in and placed a brief, gentle kiss on my cheek. “Goodnight, Sophie.”

I stood frozen as he walked away, my hand unconsciously rising to touch the spot where his lips had brushed my skin. What had just happened? And what would I tell my mother now?

As if summoned by my thoughts, my phone buzzed in my purse. I pulled it out to find three missed calls and a text message:

How was your date? Call me as soon as it’s over! I want ALL the details!

I groaned, then started to laugh. My fictional date had somehow become real, and now I’d have to decide whether to tell my mother the truth or create an even more elaborate deception.

Either way, I had a feeling my life was about to become considerably more complicated.

Part 3: The Truth Unravels

I managed to dodge my mother’s calls that night with a brief text: Home safe. Tired. Will call tomorrow. But by Sunday morning, there was no escaping the inevitable interrogation. She called as I was pouring my first cup of coffee.

“So?” Her excitement was palpable even through the phone. “How was it? Did he kiss you? When are you seeing him again?”

I sank onto my couch, coffee in hand, mentally sorting through my options. The truth seemed most straightforward: I’d made up the date to avoid her setup, but coincidentally ended up having dinner with James anyway, and now we might actually start seeing each other. But that would mean admitting I’d lied, which would hurt her feelings and potentially damage the fragile trust between us.

“It was nice,” I said carefully. “We had dinner after the museum reception. Talked about work, got to know each other a bit better.”

“And? Did he walk you home? Was he a gentleman?”

“Yes to both,” I said truthfully. “It was… surprisingly comfortable.”

“I knew it!” My mother’s voice rose an octave. “I knew he was perfect for you from the moment I saw his picture in that newsletter. So accomplished, so distinguished. When will you see him again?”

“We didn’t set a specific date,” I hedged. “We’re both busy with work, and it’s… complicated, because he’s my boss.”

“Psh,” my mother dismissed this concern. “People meet at work all the time. Your father and I met at the university, remember? He was a visiting professor, and I was working in administration.”

I did remember. It was one of her favorite stories—how the handsome Professor Chen had asked her to dinner after she helped him navigate the bureaucratic maze of academic paperwork. They’d been married six months later.

“This is different, Mom. There are professional considerations.”

“Love finds a way,” she said confidently. “Now, when can you bring him to dinner? I want to meet this man properly.”

“It’s way too soon for that,” I protested. “We’ve had one dinner. One.”

“But you’ve worked together for years! It’s not like he’s a stranger.”

I sighed. “Let’s just see how things develop, okay? No pressure, no expectations.”

She made a noise of dissatisfaction but didn’t push further on that front. Instead, she pivoted: “What did you wear? Please tell me you wore the blue dress I gave you for your birthday. It brings out your eyes.”

The interrogation continued for another twenty minutes before I managed to extricate myself with a promise to call later in the week. By the time I hung up, my coffee was cold and my head was pounding with the stress of navigating my mother’s expectations alongside my own confused feelings about James.

The truth was, I had enjoyed our dinner more than I cared to admit. There had been a connection there—intellectual, certainly, but perhaps something more personal too. The thought of exploring that connection both thrilled and terrified me.

Monday morning brought new complications. As I walked into the museum, I realized I had no idea how to act around James now. Were we colleagues having a professional discussion on Saturday, or had it been a date? Should I acknowledge the kiss on the cheek, or pretend it never happened?

I needn’t have worried. A note awaited me on my desk, written in James’s distinctive, precise handwriting:

Sophie,

I’ve been called to Washington for an unexpected meeting with potential donors. I’ll be away until Thursday. Perhaps dinner on Friday evening? 7 PM at Marea?

James

P.S. I enjoyed Saturday immensely.

I read the note three times, a smile spreading across my face. Marea was one of the best restaurants in the city—definitely not a casual colleague dinner. This was unquestionably a date. A real one.

I texted a confirmation, then spent the rest of the day in a pleasant haze, alternating between excitement about Friday and anxiety about the web of half-truths I’d spun. I needed to come clean to someone, if only to sort out my own thoughts.

During lunch, I confided in Raj, who listened with increasing amusement as I explained my predicament.

“Let me get this straight,” he said when I’d finished. “You invented a date with Hayes to avoid your mother’s setup, then accidentally ended up on a real date with him, and now you’re going on another real date, but your mother thinks you’ve been secretly seeing each other for some time?”

“That about covers it,” I groaned. “What do I do?”

Raj’s dark eyes twinkled with mischief. “Well, you could tell your mother the truth.”

“And admit I lied to her? She’d be devastated.”

“Or,” he continued, “you could tell Hayes the truth.”

I nearly choked on my water. “Tell my boss I used him as a fictional boyfriend to escape my mother’s matchmaking? Absolutely not.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to maintain the charade until either the relationship becomes serious enough that the little white lie doesn’t matter, or it fizzles out and you can tell your mother it didn’t work.”

“Those are terrible options,” I muttered.

“Welcome to the wonderful world of parental expectations,” Raj said cheerfully. “At least your mother approves of him. My mother-in-law still introduces Vikram as my ‘roommate’ to her bridge club.”

I laughed despite myself. “Point taken. I’ll figure it out.”

The week crawled by. I threw myself into work, finalizing the Tang Dynasty exhibition proposal and overseeing the installation of a new display of ceremonial jade pieces. But my mind kept returning to James and our upcoming date.

By Friday, I was a bundle of nerves. I changed outfits three times before settling on a sleek black dress that my mother had, thankfully, helped me select months ago for museum events. My phone buzzed as I was applying lipstick.

Good luck tonight! Remember—smile, ask questions about him, and no garlic!

I rolled my eyes but felt a twinge of guilt. My mother was genuinely excited for me, believing this was the continuation of a budding relationship rather than its actual beginning.

Marea was as elegant as its reputation suggested—all warm woods, soft lighting, and impeccable service. James was already seated when I arrived, rising to greet me with a warm smile and a gentle touch to my elbow as he helped me with my chair.

“You look beautiful,” he said simply.

“Thank you,” I replied, feeling a blush rise to my cheeks. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

He did. The formal suit had been replaced by charcoal slacks and a navy blazer over a crisp white shirt, open at the collar. More relaxed, but no less attractive.

The conversation flowed easily over appetizers and wine. James was well-traveled, well-read, and possessed a dry wit that repeatedly made me laugh. By the main course, I’d almost forgotten my anxiety about the situation.

“Tell me more about your mother,” he said as we were finishing our entrées. “She sounds like quite a character.”

I smiled ruefully. “She is. Stubborn, opinionated, fiercely protective. But also incredibly loving and determined. She came to this country with almost nothing, knowing very little English, and built a life for herself and me through sheer force of will.”

“That’s remarkable. And your father?”

“He was a professor of Chinese literature. Brilliant, gentle, always with his nose in a book. He died when I was ten—heart attack. It was unexpected.” The familiar pang of loss was there, but duller now, softened by time.

“I’m sorry,” James said, his eyes full of genuine empathy. “That must have been difficult for both of you.”

“It was,” I acknowledged. “I think that’s partly why my mother became so… involved in my life. She was determined not to let anything else happen to me.”

“And now she’s eager to see you settled?”

I laughed. “That’s putting it mildly. She’s on a mission to find me a husband before my eggs shrivel up, as she so delicately puts it.”

James chuckled. “Hence the close monitoring of your whereabouts, diet, and wardrobe choices?”

“Exactly. Nothing is too small for her attention.” I took a sip of wine, then added without thinking, “She’s thrilled about us, by the way.”

His eyebrows rose. “Us?”

Too late, I realized my mistake. “I mean… she’s thrilled I’m having dinner with you. She thinks you’re very distinguished.” I could feel my face flaming.

“Distinguished,” he repeated, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “Not exactly a description that sets a man’s heart racing.”

“She means it as a compliment,” I assured him. “Along with ‘accomplished’ and ‘successful.’ She googled you quite thoroughly.”

“Should I be flattered or concerned?”

“Both,

I suppose,” I said with a sheepish grin. “But really, it’s just her way of being excited. She’s been matchmaking since I was in high school, so I’ve learned to just go along with it.”

James leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes glinting with amusement. “I can’t say I blame her for being eager. Who wouldn’t be excited to have a daughter dating someone with… potential?”

I winced at the way he phrased that but quickly recovered. “That’s exactly what I mean. It’s less about us and more about her vision of my future.” I took a deep breath. “But we can drop this topic, if you like. Let’s just enjoy the evening, okay?”

He gave me a knowing smile, clearly enjoying my discomfort, but nodded. “Of course. But now that you’ve opened the door, I can’t help but wonder… What do you want, Sophie?”

I froze mid-sip, caught off guard by his directness. What did I want? I had no clear answer, only a tangled mess of thoughts—my mother’s expectations, my career, my hesitation about dating my boss, and this unexpected, undeniable chemistry I shared with James.

“I… don’t know,” I admitted, my voice quieter now. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“Well,” I exhaled sharply, “my mom is already planning my wedding in her mind. And here I am, just trying to figure out if I even like you beyond the work meetings we have. And then there’s the whole boss/employee dynamic. It’s… complicated.”

James watched me thoughtfully for a moment before leaning in slightly. “I get it. There’s a lot of pressure—external and internal. But what if we just… take it slow? No expectations, no pressure from anyone, just two people figuring things out on their own time.”

I nodded, my heart racing at the thought of taking that risk. It sounded almost too easy—too good to be true—but there was sincerity in his eyes that made me believe he meant it. “That sounds… perfect,” I whispered.

He reached out, placing his hand gently over mine on the table, a soft gesture that sent a warm rush through me. “Good. I think we can both use some time to breathe without the weight of all the outside noise, don’t you?”

I smiled, feeling a bit lighter, though the whirlwind of confusion I had about my feelings remained. “I think I’d like that,” I said, my voice steady now.

As the evening continued, the initial awkwardness that had lingered throughout our meal began to fade away. We talked, laughed, and found common ground in the most unexpected ways. By the time we finished dessert, I felt a genuine connection with James—one that went beyond work and professional boundaries.

As we stood to leave, James pulled me aside briefly. “I meant what I said earlier,” he said softly. “We don’t have to figure everything out in one night. But I’d like to see you again. When you’re ready.”

I didn’t hesitate this time. “I’d like that too.”

As we stepped out into the crisp night air, the weight of the world didn’t seem as heavy. Maybe this wasn’t just a fleeting dinner after all. Maybe this was the beginning of something worth exploring—on my own terms, without my mother’s looming influence.

The following week, things at work seemed to return to normal, but my interactions with James were noticeably more relaxed, and our occasional chats felt more personal than ever. I didn’t feel the pressure I once did. Instead, I felt a growing sense of possibility—one that I knew I would need to navigate carefully but with a sense of excitement I hadn’t experienced in a long time.

But the truth was, the path ahead was still unclear. Would I continue to hide this budding relationship from my mother? Could I balance work with personal life, especially with my boss? And when would I finally come clean about the little white lie that had started all of this?

For now, though, I wasn’t concerned about answers. I was only focused on the future ahead—a future that, for once, felt open and full of possibilities, despite the tangled web of lies, expectations, and fear of what might happen next.

And for the first time in a while, I was okay with not having all the answers right away. I was finally ready to take things one step at a time.

The Space Between Us (Conclusion)

Part 4: Meet the Mother

Three weeks later, I stood in front of my bathroom mirror, scrutinizing my appearance with unusual intensity. James and I had been dating—really dating—for nearly a month, and tonight was the moment I’d been simultaneously anticipating and dreading: James was coming to dinner at my mother’s house.

“It’s just dinner,” I told my reflection, adjusting the jade pendant my father had given me for my sixteenth birthday. “Just a normal family dinner.”

But there was nothing normal about the way my mother had been preparing. She’d called me daily with updates on her menu planning, asking detailed questions about James’s food preferences and allergies. She’d apparently deep-cleaned her entire house, purchased new dining room curtains, and even asked Mrs. Liu to help her prepare authentic Shanghai-style dishes that, she assured me, would “impress him with our cultural heritage.”

I’d tried to temper her expectations. “Mom, he’s just coming to dinner, not to evaluate our family lineage.”

“First impressions matter, Sophia,” she’d responded primly. “Besides, I want him to feel welcome.”

James had been remarkably calm about the whole thing. “I’m looking forward to it,” he’d said when I warned him about my mother’s intensity. “She sounds fascinating.”

“That’s one word for it,” I’d muttered.

Now, as I applied a final touch of lipstick, my phone buzzed with a text from James: On my way to pick you up. Bringing flowers for your mother and a bottle of wine. Anything else I should know?

I smiled at his thoughtfulness. Just be yourself. She’ll love you. But maybe don’t mention that exhibition in Seoul next spring yet… she might worry about long-distance complications.

His response was immediate: Noted. See you soon.

James arrived precisely on time, looking handsome in dark jeans and a cashmere sweater the color of stormy seas. The flowers for my mother were elegant—a tasteful arrangement of lilies and orchids—and the wine was a quality Bordeaux that even my mother, with her limited wine knowledge, would recognize as special.

“Ready for this?” he asked as we walked to his car.

“As I’ll ever be,” I replied. “Remember, she means well, even when she’s being… intense.”

“I deal with demanding board members and temperamental artists daily,” he reminded me with a smile. “I think I can handle one enthusiastic mother.”

I wasn’t so sure, but his confidence was reassuring.

When we arrived at my mother’s house, every light was on, making it glow like a lantern against the darkening evening sky. The front garden had been freshly tended, and I noticed with amusement that she’d added new planters flanking the front door since my last visit a week ago.

Before we could even ring the bell, the door swung open, revealing my mother in an elegant qipao I hadn’t seen her wear in years, her hair neatly styled, her face bright with anticipation.

“Welcome, welcome!” she exclaimed, her accent slightly more pronounced than usual, something that happened when she was nervous or excited. “Please, come in!”

James stepped forward with a warm smile, offering the flowers. “Mrs. Chen, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Sophie speaks of you with such affection.”

My mother beamed, accepting the flowers with a small bow of her head. “Such beautiful flowers! And please, call me Diana. Mrs. Chen makes me feel old.”

I suppressed a smile. My mother, who usually insisted on formality, was already on a first-name basis with James. This was going better than I’d expected.

The house smelled amazing—a blend of spices and savory aromas that made my stomach growl appreciatively. My mother had outdone herself, setting the dining room table with her best china and crystal glasses. Family photos had been strategically placed throughout the room, including several of me in graduation gowns (both master’s and doctorate) and a few of my father that rarely saw the light of day.

“Please, sit,” my mother urged, ushering us to the sofa while she disappeared to put the flowers in water. “Dinner is almost ready.”

James took the opportunity to glance around, his eyes lingering on a formal portrait of my father in his professor’s robes. “Your father?” he asked quietly.

I nodded. “Taken about a year before he died.”

“You have his eyes,” James observed. “The same intensity.”

Before I could respond, my mother returned, carrying a tray with tea and small appetizers. “I made your favorite, Sophie—red bean pastries. And James, I wasn’t sure what you might like, so I prepared a variety.”

“Everything looks wonderful,” James said sincerely. “Sophie tells me you’re an excellent cook.”

My mother practically glowed at the compliment. “Just simple home cooking. Nothing special.”

“Mom’s being modest,” I interjected. “She could have been a professional chef. Dad always said she missed her calling.”

A soft smile crossed my mother’s face at the mention of my father. “William appreciated good food. He said it nourished not just the body but the soul.”

James nodded. “A wise perspective. My own father was rather the opposite—he viewed food as simply fuel. My mother was the one who taught me to appreciate the art of cuisine.”

“And your parents, they are well?” my mother inquired, settling into her interrogation more gently than I’d anticipated.

“My father passed away five years ago,” James replied. “My mother lives in Boston still, in the house where I grew up. She’s quite active—volunteers at the public library, tends her garden, travels when she can.”

“A woman after my own heart,” my mother approved. “Gardens teach patience and persistence. Essential qualities.”

The conversation flowed surprisingly easily as we moved to the dining table, where my mother had prepared an impressive spread: Shanghai-style soup dumplings, braised pork belly, stir-fried vegetables with delicate sauces, and several dishes I recognized from my childhood but hadn’t tasted in years.

“This is extraordinary,” James said after his first bite of a soup dumpling. “The flavor balance is perfect.”

My mother nodded approvingly. “You have good taste. Some people don’t appreciate the subtlety.”

I watched in amazement as my mother and James fell into a comfortable rhythm of conversation—discussing food, art, gardening, and even politics with a measure of agreement I rarely witnessed between my mother and, well, anyone. She laughed at his dry jokes, listened attentively to his stories about museum acquisitions, and even shared anecdotes about her own life that I hadn’t heard before.

“Did Sophie tell you how she chose her career?” my mother asked as she served dessert—a delicate lychee pudding garnished with mint leaves.

James glanced at me with interest. “I don’t believe she has.”

My mother leaned forward conspiratorially. “When she was seven years old, William took her to the Met for the first time. They spent hours in the Asian Art section, and when they returned, Sophie announced very seriously that she would ‘take care of old Chinese things’ when she grew up.”

I felt my cheeks warm. “I don’t remember saying that.”

“Because you were half-asleep,” my mother laughed. “But your father wrote it down in his journal. He was so proud when you chose art history for your studies.”

James smiled at me, his eyes soft. “A calling from an early age. That explains the dedication.”

As the evening progressed, I found myself relaxing, enjoying the unexpected harmony between the two most important people in my life. My mother was still my mother—she managed to slip in questions about James’s health insurance, retirement plans, and views on children—but she did it with more tact than I’d ever witnessed.

After dessert, James insisted on helping with the dishes despite my mother’s protests. I joined them in the kitchen, feeling a strange sense of rightness as we worked together in the small space, passing plates and exchanging smiles.

“Sophie mentioned you practice tai chi,” James said as he dried a serving platter. “I’ve always been interested in learning.”

My mother brightened. “Really? It’s excellent for balance and stress. My class meets Saturday mornings in the park near here. You would be welcome to join us.”

“I’d like that,” James replied, and I could tell he meant it.

Later, as we prepared to leave, my mother pressed containers of leftovers into our hands. “For your lunch tomorrow,” she insisted. “Much better than restaurant food.”

James thanked her warmly, then surprised both of us by giving her a respectful hug. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, Diana. I hope we can do this again soon.”

My mother, not typically demonstrative with strangers, returned the embrace. “You are welcome in my home anytime, James.”

As we drove back to my apartment, I let out a long breath. “That went… surprisingly well.”

James glanced at me, amused. “Did you expect disaster?”

“Not disaster, exactly. But my mother can be… overwhelming. You handled her perfectly.”

“I liked her,” James said simply. “She’s devoted to you. Protective, yes, but from a place of deep love. That’s something to cherish.”

I considered his words. “I know. It’s just sometimes difficult to breathe under the weight of all that devotion.”

“Have you ever really told her how you feel? Not in the heat of frustration, but in a calm, honest conversation?”

I stared out the window at the passing city lights. “Not really. I complain, I evade, I create elaborate deceptions to avoid dentist sons—” James chuckled at this “—but I’ve never sat down and had a real conversation about boundaries.”

“Maybe it’s time,” he suggested gently. “She’s a reasonable woman. I think she might be more receptive than you expect.”

I wasn’t convinced, but his words stayed with me. When we reached my apartment, James walked me to my door.

“Stay?” I asked impulsively. We’d been taking things slowly, conscious of our professional relationship, but tonight I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts.

His smile was tender as he brushed a strand of hair from my face. “Are you sure?”

In answer, I unlocked my door and led him inside.

Later, as we lay together in the darkness of my bedroom, James’s arm a comforting weight around my waist, I found myself thinking about my mother—how happy she’d looked tonight, how she’d lit up when talking about my father, how she’d finally met a man in my life she approved of.

“You’re thinking very loudly,” James murmured against my hair.

I turned to face him. “I think you’re right. About talking to my mother. It’s time.”

He kissed my forehead. “I’ll support whatever you decide.”

The next morning, I called my mother and arranged to meet her for lunch the following day—just the two of us. When I arrived at the small café near her house, she was already seated, a pot of tea steaming on the table.

“You look tired,” she said by way of greeting. “Are you getting enough sleep?”

Typically, I would have deflected or responded with mild irritation. Instead, I took a deep breath and said, “Mom, I need to talk to you about something important.”

Her expression immediately shifted to concern. “Is something wrong? Are you sick? Is it James?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I assured her. “James is wonderful. I’m healthy. But I need to talk to you about… us. Our relationship.”

My mother’s brow furrowed. “What about it?”

I chose my words carefully. “I love you, Mom. So much. Everything I’ve accomplished, everything I am—I owe to you and Dad. Your sacrifices, your support, your love.”

Her expression softened. “That’s what parents do, Sophie.”

“I know. But I’m thirty-five years old, Mom. I need space to make my own decisions—even my own mistakes. When you call me multiple times a day to check on what I’m eating or wearing or who I’m seeing, it makes me feel… smothered. Like you don’t trust me to manage my own life.”

I expected defensiveness, perhaps even anger. Instead, my mother was quiet for a long moment, her hands wrapped around her teacup.

“After your father died,” she said finally, “I was terrified. Of everything. The world seemed so dangerous, so unpredictable. One day he was there, the next—gone. I promised myself nothing would ever happen to you. That I would protect you from every possible harm.”

Her voice trembled slightly, and I reached across the table to take her hand.

“I know I am… too much sometimes,” she continued. “I call too often. I ask too many questions. But it’s not because I don’t trust you, Sophie. It’s because I don’t trust the world. And because being your mother—it’s who I am. When you needed me less, I didn’t know who to be anymore.”

Her honesty stunned me. In all our years together, we’d never spoken so openly about her fears, about the roots of her overprotectiveness.

“I understand,” I said softly. “And I’m not asking you to stop being my mother. I just need a little more room to breathe. To live my life without feeling guilty when I don’t answer every call, or when I make a decision you might not agree with.”

She nodded slowly. “I can try. But you must promise to still call me sometimes. Not because I’m checking on you, but because I miss you when I don’t hear your voice.”

“I promise,” I said, feeling a lump in my throat. “And maybe we can have regular dinners? Once a week, or even twice a month?”

“I would like that.” She squeezed my hand. “And James is welcome anytime. He is a good man. Your father would have approved.”

The highest praise she could offer. “Thank you, Mom. That means a lot to me.”

“Just promise me one thing,” she said, a hint of her usual sternness returning. “When you have children, you will bring them to visit. Often. I may give you space, but I refuse to be a distant grandmother.”

I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in years. “That’s a promise I can definitely keep.”

Epilogue: One Year Later

The museum gala was in full swing, the grand hall transformed by subtle lighting and elegant floral arrangements. As the curator responsible for the hugely successful Tang Dynasty exhibition—now being courted by museums in London and Paris—I found myself the center of attention, accepting congratulations from board members and patrons alike.

“Dr. Chen, the exhibition is extraordinary,” an elderly trustee enthused. “The way you’ve drawn connections between the artistic traditions—simply masterful.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Whitmore,” I replied. “It’s been a labor of love.”

As the trustee moved on, I felt a familiar presence at my side. James, impeccable in his tuxedo, handed me a glass of champagne.

“You’re the star of the evening,” he said, pride evident in his voice. “Everyone’s talking about the exhibition—and its brilliant curator.”

I smiled, taking a sip of champagne. “It’s been a team effort. But I won’t pretend I’m not pleased with how it turned out.”

“Speaking of teams,” James said, glancing toward the entrance, “your mother has arrived. With Professor Lin, I believe?”

I followed his gaze to see my mother walking into the hall, elegant in a deep blue evening gown, accompanied by a distinguished-looking man with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Professor Lin taught Chinese literature at Columbia—a colleague of my father’s from years ago who had reconnected with my mother at a university alumni event six months earlier.

Their relationship had developed slowly, centered initially around shared memories of my father and a mutual love of classical poetry. But lately, I’d noticed a new lightness in my mother, a sparkle in her eye that had been absent for decades.

“I think it is,” I confirmed. “She mentioned he might accompany her tonight.”

“They make a handsome couple,” James observed.

They did. As they made their way toward us, I noted how Professor Lin gently guided my mother through the crowd with a hand at the small of her back, how she inclined her head toward him when he spoke, how they moved in sync, like dancers accustomed to each other’s rhythms.

“Sophie, darling,” my mother greeted me with a kiss on the cheek. “The exhibition is magnificent. Your father would have been so proud.”

“Thank you, Mom,” I said, hugging her warmly. “You remember James, of course. And it’s good to see you again, Professor Lin.”

“Please, call me Wei,” he insisted, shaking hands with James and me. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing this exhibition. Diana speaks of your work with such admiration.”

“You must give them a private tour later, Sophie,” my mother suggested. “Wei has a particular interest in Tang poetry and its influence on visual arts.”

“I’d be delighted,” I agreed, noting the way my mother’s hand rested comfortably on Wei’s arm, the casual intimacy of the gesture.

We chatted for a few minutes before another guest claimed my attention. As I moved away, I glanced back to see my mother laughing at something Wei had said, her face animated in a way that reminded me suddenly, acutely, of old photographs from her youth.

Later, as the evening wound down, James found me in a quiet corner of the exhibition space, contemplating a delicate jade carving.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked, slipping an arm around my waist.

“I was just thinking about change,” I replied, leaning into him. “How resistant we can be to it, how we cling to familiar patterns even when they no longer serve us. And then how, sometimes, everything shifts all at once.”

He followed my gaze to where my mother and Wei were examining a scroll display, their heads bent close together in conversation.

“She seems happy,” James observed.

“She does,” I agreed. “It’s strange… for so long, I felt smothered by her attention. Now that she has someone else in her life, I find I’m… not jealous, exactly, but…”

“You’re adjusting to a new dynamic,” James supplied. “After a lifetime of being the center of her world, you’re now sharing that space. It’s natural to have mixed feelings.”

I turned to face him, once again struck by how well he understood me. “When did you get so wise?”

“I’ve picked up a few insights over the years,” he said with a smile. “One being that relationships—all relationships—require constant renegotiation. The ones that last are those where both parties are willing to evolve.”

I thought about how much had changed in the past year. My relationship with my mother had transformed into something healthier, more balanced. We still had our moments of tension—her instinct to manage my life hadn’t disappeared overnight—but we were learning, both of us, to respect each other’s boundaries. Our weekly dinners had become a cherished ritual rather than an obligation, and I found myself looking forward to her calls rather than dreading them.

Professionally, the success of the Tang exhibition had cemented my reputation in the field. I’d been offered positions at other institutions—including a prestigious directorship in Chicago—but had chosen to stay at the Met, where James and I had carefully navigated the complexities of our personal and professional relationship.

“I have something for you,” James said, interrupting my reflections. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small velvet box.

My heart skipped a beat. “James?”

“Not what you’re thinking,” he said with a gentle smile. “Not yet, anyway. Though I hope someday…”

He opened the box to reveal a delicate jade pendant, similar in style to the one my father had given me but with subtle differences in the carving.

“It’s Tang Dynasty,” he explained. “From a private collection that’s being donated to the museum. The owner agreed to let this piece go as a special gift. I thought… well, it reminded me of yours. Like a companion piece.”

Tears pricked at my eyes as I touched the smooth stone. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

As James fastened the pendant around my neck, I caught sight of my mother watching us from across the room, a knowing smile on her face. She gave me a small nod, then turned back to Wei, allowing me my private moment of happiness.

In that instant, I understood something I’d been struggling to articulate for months: the space between us—between my mother and me—was not a void to be filled or a distance to be eliminated. It was room to grow, to become our full selves, to love each other not from obligation or fear, but from choice.

I raised my hand in a small wave, and my mother waved back, then deliberately turned away to give us privacy. It was a small gesture but loaded with meaning—an acknowledgment that I was an adult with my own life, my own loves, my own decisions to make.

“What are you thinking now?” James asked, noticing my expression.

“That I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be,” I replied, and kissed him amid the treasures of the past, surrounded by history yet firmly anchored in the present, looking toward a future full of possibilities.