Page 84 of The Boyfriend List
“But you—you were the only one who saw the arguments between us. Who saw how he hurt me. How much we argued. I couldn’t let you… I couldn’t watch you leave me, too, London.” Her eyes glimmer with unshed tears. “I couldn’t lose the only child I have who still loves me.”
I’m rooted to the ground, my arms dropping to my sides from their defensive posture. All along I suspected I might be the only one who she felt she could confide in about her problems. That I was her main support in our dysfunctional family. But I never realized that she felt so desperate, so hopeless in her marriage, that she couldn’t let me go.
“Why didn’t you just tell me that?” I sigh. Have I been so against having a wife and children for all these years because deep down, I felt the same way? Because deep down, I thought too highly of myself, believing I was my mother’s saviour, her only hope? “Why couldn’t you just say how you felt?”
“I was scared,” she whispers, staring down at her hands, with a pale line on her finger where her wedding ring used to be. Was she wearing it at Sav’s wedding? I don’t even remember now. “Everyone else had rejected me. How was I supposed to know that you wouldn’t do that, too?”
The vulnerability in her voice pierces my side like a thorn. My instinct is to reassure her. To tell her that of course, I’ll never leave. That I’ll do anything to make her happy.
But I’ve spent so many years bending over backwards to make this family function, and when did it all fall apart? While I was trying my hardest.
What if I’d never been the go-between for my parents? Never tried to grease the wheels on the rusty vehicle? Just let it break down, so they could see the real depth of their problems and fix them earlier?
Maybe I thought of myself as healing my family when I was just masking the symptoms until it was too late. Until the cancer had metastasized.
“I’m sorry that you felt that way,” I say, swallowing the words that I might have said before the wedding. “But you and Dad need to work out your problems eventually, and I’m sorry if me always being here for you enabled you to never actually deal with your issues. I love you, Mom, but I can’t keep being your therapist. I just wanted to be yourson.”
She rubs the back of her neck. “I know. I haven’t been fair to you, London. Putting all my burdens on you wasn’t right. You were… you were too young to have to listen to all my complaints about your father. Too young to be helping me through everything. It was selfish of me. Can you forgive me?”
As she speaks, something inside me that I didn’t even know was broken seems to mend. Like I’ve been walking around for all twenty-seven years of my life, believing I was whole when I was a mosaic with the pieces missing, and she’s finally slid them back into place with her words.
I’ve never lived a life where I didn’t accommodate myself to help and fix and please others. To twist myself into whatever mould they needed at that time. To fulfill what I thought was my purpose.
That’s why I love Gloria. She never asked that of me. Never expected me to change or wanted me to be anyone but myself.
“I forgive you.” I shove my hands into the pockets of my cargo pants. “But you need to apologize to Gloria, too.”
“I will.” She takes a deep breath, as if fortifying herself. “I’m happy you have her. And I’d give anything for the two of you to have a happier marriage than I did with your father.”
Did. Notdo. Their marriage really is over.
Grief encases my heart before I breathe again, making room for love. For grace.
“Maybe we could all have dinner sometime,” I suggest.
“I’d like that,” she says, stepping forward and hugging me. “I’d like that a lot.”
“Where’s Dad?” I ask after she releases me from the hug. Her familiar scent of laundry detergent still lingers on me.
“I don’t know. When I woke up, he was gone. I checked his room and it was empty.” She shrugs.
Do I have the emotional bandwidth to confront him right now? Probably not.
Am I going to do it anyways?
Well, I did say I was an idiot.
My FindMe app tells me my dad is at a bar a few blocks away. Surprising, since he never drinks except in social situations. Even then, he only limits himself to one drink at parties. Something I guess we have in common.
When I walk into the bar, I’m surprised by how dingy and run-down it looks. Sticky, scuffed wooden floors and scratched counters, along witha faded dartboard, tell me the place has definitely seen better days. When combined with the aroma of spilled beer and the divorced dad rock piping through the speakers, it’s not the most welcoming or upscale environment.
Which is why my dad would usually never be caught dead in a place like this. He prefers upscale establishments where he can flaunt his wealth and accomplishments. Places where people would be impressed by his Amex or high-powered legal career.
Maybe he’s given up saving face. Or at the very least pressed pause on caring about his reputation.
He’s hunched over the almost-empty bar, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, a contrast to his typical button-downs and slacks. The casual clothes make him seem smaller and older, highlighting the greying hair by his temples and the wrinkles on his face when he turns around as I walk closer.
The look in his eyes gouges through me, anger and bitterness and the tiniest bit of resignation. Like he knew I’d find him here, and he already knows what I’ll say.
