Page 66 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

“He’s not their father!”

She folds her arms. “I know he isn’t, but I’m not arguing with you about this. Lucy and Lara need a man in their lives, and Todd is a good man. I’m sorry if it makes you upset, but I’m not going to stop the girls from expressing themselves.”

“So, that’s it? You’re going to pretend Ray didn’t exist?”

“Of course not.” She sneers at me. “I’m not the heartless bitch you think I am. I have framed pictures of him. I talk about him all the time, but the girls are little, they don’t understand. All they know is their daddy went to heaven, and Todd is here.”

My face hurts from trying to keep it in place, refusing to give away how much this not only hurts me, but everyone in my family.

“Todd isn’t taking Raymond’s place, but I can’t do this on my own.” Her voice cracks with emotion, and for a moment, I’m contrite about being so angry with her. It has to be difficult raising two little kids on her own. When I don’t put up any further arguments, she wipes at the corner of her eye, then fixes her hair and weaves around me, leaving me alone to wallow.

A little while later, my grandparents shuffle inside with my mom between them. Wordlessly, I grab my purse and we pile in the car. As soon as I pull away, Mom breaks down. The squeak of my brakes and her sniffles are the only sounds to keep us company on the ride home. By the time I drop my grandparents off, Mom’s mascara is zigzagged down her cheek, and when I open the front door at home, she rushes upstairs, right past Dad passed out in his chair. I’ve seen it so many times, I have no energy left to be disappointed in him. I should’ve guessed this was how he would end up, even if his grandchildren had a birthday.

Downstairs, I throw myself onto my bed, thoroughly drained.

Two steps forward, one step back.

AUGUST 15

Welp. August sucks. I’m ready for summer to be over. It’s hot. And no, those aren’t tears on my face, that’s my sweat. But yes, six months and it’s not any easier. Grieving is supposed to get easier, isn’t it? Someone told me that.

#Grief #Summer #Sweat #Lies

CHAPTER 24

Ever since the Daddy debacle, Mom’s been spending a lot of time in bed, so I’m back to doing the grocery shopping, cooking, and cleaning. Not that she eats or moves all that much when she’s in her downswings.

Professor Row emailed me back, but I’ve been too busy to open it. Although, if I’m honest, I’m afraid to open it because she might have something wonderful to say. And even if she has something wonderful to say, I know I won’t follow through.

I can’t. Not now when Mom is so depressed.

I couldn’t possibly leave her.

Pushing those thoughts away, I press play on another true crime podcast before folding my clothes then sorting through my parents’ clothes. I stop when I see it, a smear of pink that can only be lipstick on the collar of one of my dad’s shirts.

I rub my thumb over the stain, thinking about all the nights I hoped what I feared wasn’t true. He wouldn’t betray my mother. Not after everything we’ve all been through.

But the evidence is right in front of me.

Setting aside the tainted Brooks Brothers shirt, I finish the rest of the laundry, planning what I’m going to say to him.

How dare you?

Are you deliberately trying to destroy our family?

Instead of coming home, you’re spending your nights with another woman or women?

You’re selfish and insensitive.

You only care about yourself.

I repeat those sentences and more in my head, hyping myself up for the confrontation, but I don’t get the chance.

Three, four, five, six days go by. Then it’s a full two weeks before my father finally comes home.

It’s a Saturday in September, the kind of perfectly clear, mildly cool day that hints at the months to come. It’s the kind of day I might want to find a perfect photo of some fall foliage, yellowing trees, apples, or some other stereotypical thing to post along with #Unbeleafable and #SweaterWeather.

But I don’t do that. Instead, I write a very different post about my brother, along with an old picture of us when we were little, two and five, maybe. My arms are wrapped around his middle like I’m squeezing really hard while he’s shoving me away.

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