He walked in holding a bottle of Merlot and my mother’s hand. I nearly dropped the casserole.

We’d dated for two years. Idris. The quiet type—always ordering the weirdest thing on the menu, always fixing my cabinet doors without asking. We broke up after he ghosted me for a week, then texted “I need to figure my shit out.” That was six months ago.

Now he’s standing in our family dining room, wearing the scarf I bought him, complimenting my mom’s pot roast like this is totally normal. And she’s giggling. My 58-year-old mother is giggling.

Apparently they met at her book club. He showed up as someone’s plus-one. I don’t know what’s more disturbing: that he’s into women twice his age, or that she’s into the guy who once clogged my toilet and blamed my cooking.

My dad thinks it’s a phase. My brother thinks it’s fake. I think I’m in hell. Because here’s the kicker: they want to go public. She wants to bring him to Thanksgiving. To our family cabin.

So I do what any self-respecting daughter would do. I fake a phone call, step outside, and immediately text his OTHER ex—Sahra. The one who keyed his Civic and still has his Hulu password.

She replies with three fire emojis and: “Let’s talk.”

The café where we meet is five minutes from my place. I get there first and snag a booth near the back, far from curious ears. When Sahra walks in, she’s wearing a leather jacket and a smirk like she already knows everything.

“You saw it, didn’t you?” I ask before she’s even fully seated.

She raises an eyebrow. “Your mom and Idris? Oh, I more than saw it. I filmed it. At a poetry reading in Shoreditch. She read a piece about him being her ‘sunset flame.’ I nearly choked on my espresso.”

I gag a little. “Sunset flame? Are you kidding me?”

“Nope,” she says, then pulls out her phone and shows me the video.

There they are. Idris and my mother, sitting too close, holding hands while she reads a free-verse poem that includes the line ‘your beard carries the weight of all my regrets’.

I want to scream. Instead, I laugh. That kind of unhinged, dry laugh that sounds like a cough.

“So,” Sahra says, leaning in, “what’s the plan?”

And just like that, we’re co-conspirators. Two exes, one very uncomfortable love triangle, and a mission to figure out what the hell Idris is up to.

Over the next few days, we dig. Sahra knows a guy who works at Idris’s old gym. Apparently, Idris still owes money for a broken rowing machine. I find an old shoebox with letters he wrote me—half-finished thoughts, mostly, like “You make me want to be more than the mistakes I came from.” Gross.

But the real break comes when Sahra checks his Venmo. The man’s an oversharer. One payment to my mom is labeled “for the fig chutney and late-night wisdom.” Another one says, “reimbursement for turmeric and… kisses?”

“That’s it. I’m confronting him,” I say.

Sahra grabs my wrist. “Not yet. We need to hit him where it hurts.”

“And where’s that?”

She grins. “His pride. Let’s show him we’re not the wounded little exes he thinks we are.”

So we stage something. A fake wellness retreat. We invite mutual friends, even some of his old buddies from film school. We post photos—yoga on cliffs, candlelit dinners, meditation circles where no one’s actually meditating. Just looking serene and over it.

It works. He texts me three days later: “U look happy. Good for you.”

I don’t reply.

Instead, I call my mom.

“Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Can we talk? About Idris?”

She’s quiet for a moment. “Of course, honey. I know this is weird for you.”

“More than weird,” I admit. “It’s like watching a rom-com written by a sadistic 12-year-old.”

She laughs softly. “I didn’t expect this either. He just… listens to me. Really listens.”

I bite my tongue. I could remind her that he used to listen to me too, right up until he decided disappearing was easier. But I don’t.

Instead, I ask, “Does he know you’re still married?”

She sighs. “Your father and I are figuring things out.”

Which is her way of saying they still have Sunday pancakes together and nap in front of nature documentaries. This isn’t real. It’s a rebound with a splash of rebellion.

I end the call gently, but my heart’s beating hard. I’ve got a plan now.

A week later, I host a dinner. Just family and close friends. Idris is invited, obviously. My mom insists he sit beside her.

I smile through it all—through the wine pouring, the salad passing, even when he makes a toast about “new beginnings.”

Then I bring out dessert. Not just any dessert. The plum tart he taught me to make. The same one we made the night we said “I love you” for the first time.

His face freezes when he sees it.

“Tastes familiar, doesn’t it?” I say sweetly.

He swallows hard. My mother looks confused.

After dinner, he corners me in the kitchen.

“What are you doing?”

I lean against the counter. “Just serving dessert. You know, the kind that comes with memories.”

He shakes his head. “You’re trying to sabotage this.”

“Sabotage?” I laugh. “Idris, you’re dating your ex’s mother. This isn’t Grey’s Anatomy. It’s therapy bait.”

He lowers his voice. “It’s real. What your mom and I have.”

“Then why are you still texting Sahra?” I ask, pulling out my phone. “She showed me the screenshots.”

His face drains of color. For once, he’s speechless.

I leave him there, in the kitchen, staring at a half-eaten tart.

Two days later, my mom shows up at my place. No makeup, hair undone.

“He told me,” she says quietly. “About Sahra. About you. About everything.”

I nod, not sure what to say.

“I feel stupid,” she whispers. “Like I let myself believe something because I wanted to feel wanted.”

I pull her into a hug. “You’re not stupid. You just forgot who you are for a second.”

She pulls back and smiles. “And I remembered. Right after I dumped him.”

Turns out, she ended it the night after the dinner. Not just because of Sahra. But because she realized he never really asked about her life—only talked about “connection” and his screenplay about a man who dates a psychic and loses his identity. Classic Idris nonsense.

Weeks pass. Sahra and I stay in touch—turns out, when you bond over mutual emotional whiplash, a strange friendship forms. We even start a little podcast called Exes Anonymous, where we unpack relationships and roast our past selves.

My mom rekindles things with my dad. They start ballroom dancing again. And one Sunday morning, I catch them slow-dancing in the kitchen while pancakes burn on the stove.

And Idris?

He moves to Austin to “start over.” His Instagram is now full of beard oil ads and captions like “healing is a journey.”

Good luck with that, sunset flame.

I thought I’d feel empty after it all. But honestly, I feel lighter.

There’s something satisfying about life playing out exactly as it should—even when the path is chaotic and weird.

Because sometimes, what looks like a breakdown is actually a breakthrough.

So, if you’ve ever felt like your world turned inside out, take a breath. Let time do its thing.

And maybe ask yourself: what’s your plum tart moment?

If you liked this story, share it with a friend who’s been through the chaos. And don’t forget to hit like—it helps more than you know.