My mother was nothing if not persistent, and it wasn’t long before I found myself sitting across from my parents at their kitchen table, a cup of lukewarm tea in front of me along with a plate of raw veggies and hard-boiled eggs. My mom, being diabetic, claimed to never having a sweet tooth, and so while another mother might serve fresh-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookies or banana bread with tea, mine believed savory snacks completely reasonable accompaniments.
They had told me the whole story, again, because I didn’t remember hearing it the first time. They had decided to split up just after Christmas, though they were still living in the house together (in separate rooms) and planned to until they sold it and found other places to live. Dad had gone to Mexico with some of his golf buddies, without Mom, which explained his tanned arms in the middle of winter. Mom was dating, Dad was not, but he didn’t seem to begrudge her for moving on and even managed to say what a nice man Carl was. Though if you asked me, he seemed a bit sad to be saying it.
“But the two of you,” I began, trying not to get emotional. “You love each other. A lot. Am I remembering things wrong?” Did I confabulate a sweeter relationship than the one they had? The grateful smile Mom would give Dad when he asked if she needed a snack, always fussing over her and taking care of her. The way he would pat her bottom and give her a wink when he thought Alex and I weren’t watching. The Sunday nights when they would go to bed early—saying we were not to bother them unless someone was bleeding or not breathing—and Alex and I naively thought they were tired. How Mom always went out of her way to make Dad—who had a serious sweet tooth—his favorite desserts, even when she couldn’t eat them. How she would puff up with pride when she talked about what an amazing professor he was and how lucky the university was to have him, every chance she got. It made no sense.
“No, honey, you’ve got it right,” Dad said, and he and Mom exchanged a smile. But now that I knew the truth I could see the difference between them. They cared about one another, but that spark—the love—it was no longer there. “Your mother and I will always love and respect one another. But sometimes what used to make sense doesn’t make sense anymore.” The frankness of his words hit me hard. Wasn’t that exactly what was happening with my own life? “People can grow apart, even after thirty-some years.”
I nodded and pressed my lips together.
“Do you want more tea?” Mom asked, but I hadn’t even taken a sip. I shook my head. She pushed the plate of snacks closer to me and I ignored the vegetables, taking half a hard-boiled egg instead.
“So how did I take this news the first time?” I asked. I sprinkled a little salt on the egg, then bit into it.
They glanced at each other again. “Pretty much like this,” Mom said. “Perhaps a little more angry, a bit less emotional.”
“I wish you had told me right away,” I said. “It wasn’t fair, keeping it from me.” I popped the rest of the egg into my mouth and Mom looked pleased for a moment—about what, I wasn’t sure—before her face slid into a frown.
“We know that now, and wish we had, too, sweetheart,” she replied, heaving a big sigh. “Once we realized you didn’t remember things quite right—” understatement of the year “—your dad and I thought it would be easier to tell you later. After you’d gotten your feet back under you again.”
“But we made a mistake,” Dad added. “And we’re so sorry, Lucy. We didn’t want things to be harder for you, but, well...seems to be exactly what we’ve done.”
I realized why they had done it, because it was exactly what I was doing with Matt. My parents had tried to protect me, to cushion me against the truth when my life had blown up into a million little pieces I might never be able to put back together. Their instincts were bang on even if their execution was flawed, and so I couldn’t stay angry with them.
“It’s okay,” I said, and I meant it. “I understand why you didn’t tell me right away. I probably wouldn’t have told me, either.” I smiled, and Mom grabbed my hand and kissed it, holding it against her cheek. “But no more secrets, okay?”
“No more secrets,” Mom said, finally releasing my hand, and Dad nodded. I put another half egg on my plate, then noticed Mom looked sheepish as she watched me. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Well, you said no more secrets...”
“And?”
“And you don’t like eggs, Lucy!”
I frowned. “Of course I like eggs.” I thought back to my childhood, and Sunday morning breakfasts. Pancakes with real maple syrup and one sunny-side-up egg sprinkled with paprika. My mom always shoving hard-boiled eggs wrapped in waxed paper at us on road trips, to keep your strength up, which meant so we didn’t have to stop to eat fast food. “I’ve always liked eggs.”
“You used to, but then you got food poisoning from some egg salad at the deli in your office building a couple of years ago. You were so sick you had to get an IV at the hospital. Said you would never touch another egg again.”
“What? Really?” I had no memory of that. Tried to see if I could recollect anything, but I couldn’t. I glanced at the egg on my plate and it looked delicious to me. “So, then why did you put eggs out? Doesn’t that seem, I don’t know, sort of mean?”
She shrugged. “I’m as surprised as you are. The eggs were for me. I thought you would just eat the veggies. You do need to eat more vegetables. But look, now you like eggs again!” She beamed at me. “See? It’s not all doom and gloom, Lucy. Good things can still happen.”
I wasn’t sure we could make the leap from going back to liking eggs to other good things happening, but I smiled at her regardless. “Good things can still happen,” I murmured, picking up the egg and biting into it, not hating it at all.