Page 9 of Every Beautiful Mile

Here’s the thing I’ve learned about being a parent to teenagers—half of the time, I love them so much it hurts while the other half I wonder if shoving knives under my fingernails would be more enjoyable.

“Finn!” Marin hisses, but he’s unphased. He simply shrugs.

“Tell me how you really feel,” I mumble, stabbing a fork into my salad.

“I think what Finn was trying to say, Mom, is that you don’t seem to… have fun anymore. You go to work, you come home, you wear a lot of gray.”

Her eyes drop to my gray shirt, and I don’t miss the look of disgust she fails to hide.

“And we never talk about Dad,” she continues. “As much as we all miss him, it’s like we have to pretend he never existed.”

The words sting like a well-deserved slap.

I can’t argue with any of it. I had freaked out on an entire church. My wardrobe does resemble that of a warm weather undertaker, and I do avoid talking about Travis. But do I mope?

I scoff. “I don’t mope.”

“You don’t mope?” Finn clasps his hands together over his plate as he leans against his elbows on the table, eyebrows raised. “Marin, you know all these fancy words. Explain to Mom what moping means.”

“Sad. Gloomy. Low spirited. Sulky. Broody,” she says, ticking the words off on her fingers.

Damn her and the books she’s always reading.

I have no defense. They’re right, and so was my dad in his obnoxiously cheery retirement garb.

I look back to the leaves as they rustle in the breeze and try to figure out how to handle this news.

“Well, what am I supposed to do about it? He was supposed to be here, doing all this with us. It’s hard not to be low spirited when it constantly feels like he keeps forgetting to show up.”

My voice comes out in an almost whine even I feel annoyed by.

“Really, Mom?” Finn scoffs. “He didn’t forget to show up. He died. Though seeing how miserable you’re acting, I wouldn’t blame him if it was his choice.”

If he wasn’t my kid, I would have kindly told Finn to fuck off.

Marin whips her head towards him. “Finn!”

I hold up my hand and bat his comment away, refusing to feed into the argument he’s looking for.

“Stop right there.” I fight to swallow every ugly word I want to hurtle out of my mouth. “I got it. I suck at this. Your thoughts are noted, Finn. Apparently, you both think Grandpa is right, so I’ll work on it. Happy?”

I cross my arms over my chest, pouty child mode fully activated.

“Maybe we could go on a vacation or something?” Marin offers, hopefully.

I force a smile, but the idea of a vacation without Travis makes my temples throb. I consider telling them about my dad essentially firing me for the summer but force it out of my mind. I don’t have the mental capacity to handle that conversation on top of the lovely one we’re already having.

There’s a long pause that seems to go on for hours as we take bites of our food and live in our own heads.

“How about we share a favorite story about Dad?” I suggest. “We can’t go on a vacation tonight, and I can’t change the fact my wardrobe rivals the Grim Reaper at the moment, but I can do better about talking about him.”

It’s a moment, albeit an ugly one of sorts, where I need to show them I’m willing to pull myself out of whatever mud pit I’m stuck in and keep living alongside them. I know my kids will look back at the year after Travis left and remember how poorly I handled it. But I can’t let one year turn into two, turn into a lifetime of me being a shell of a woman.

“Me first!” Marin’s squeal almost makes me laugh, and God bless her, she’s beaming.

“Today’s favorite story is when I was six and in ballet. Do you remember?”

Finn and I nod as a silent truce forms between us from the lightness of her words.

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