Page 17 of We Were Something
“Mom, what are youdoing?”
My hands clutch the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles flushing white as frustration floods my body.
She lets out a long sigh. “You don’t understand.”
“You’re right, I don’t understand. What possible reason could you have for spending time with Jen?”
“She’s my daughter, Logan.”
“No she’s not, mom. And the fact that you can’t see that is just…absolutely maddening.”
A long pause stretches between us as I pull into the driveway.
“What do you want me to say? I’mlonely, Logan.”
“If you’re lonely, make some friends. Go back to church. Volunteer somewhere. There are a thousand ways to meet people thatdon’tinclude spending time with my ex-wife.”
Another elongated moment of silence passes and I turn off the engine, just sitting in my car and staring at the dash, which is still illuminated and showing me I need to get gas soon.
I don’t think it’s too selfish of me to ask my mother not to stay buddy-buddy with the woman who served me divorce papers without so much as a backward glance. Sure, we’ve faced our friends with a united front—It’s best for both of us,We just don’t work anymore, and all those other lines that tiptoe around dirtier words that make people uncomfortable.
Words likeinfidelity. Words likedeceitandresentmentandblame. Those are ugly terms friends and family don’t want to hear, so we kept them mostly to ourselves.
But my mother knows the truth about what happened between me and Jen, the reason our nearly fifteen-year marriage crumbled. So the fact that she’s spending time with the woman who so easily tossed me aside—who saw me as expendable—it cuts deeply.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Logan. I just…I guess I didn’t realize you’d be so bothered by us getting dinner together.”
“Of course I’d be bothered,” I shout, my frustration bubbling over in an uncharacteristic display of anger, the sound echoing against my ears in the small interior of my vehicle. “You’re my mom. You’re supposed to be onmyside.”
“Do there have to be sides?”
I scoff, bringing a hand to my face and pinching the bridge of my nose in irritation.
“Yes, Mom,” I answer, lowering my voice. “When one of the people involved cheats and gets pregnant and divorces the other person to be with the man they cheated with,yes—one hundred percent there are sides.”
I feel a bit immature being so demanding of my mother, but her desire to retain a relationship with Jen after everything that has transpired is just…unbelievable to me.
I mean, I’m not a monster. Part of me doeswantto be understanding of the situation. When I decided to accept a job in Seattle after graduating from med school at UW, she moved up from California to be near me and Jen. My mother has never made friends easily, and she spent a good portion of her time with the two of us for years, mostly with my ex, if I’m honest, since I was always so wrapped up in work. It should be only natural for her to gravitate toward her daughter-in-law now that I’ve moved away.
But the part of me that still resents what Jen did can’t get past the fact that my mother is choosing to not only forgive her completely, but pretend nothing happened. Apparently, for my mother, there are no hard feelings.
Even though the child Jen is carrying isn’t my mother’s grandson.
As much as I try to be the bigger man, the better man, the kinder man in any circumstance, the smaller, angry, not-so-great version of me wins out.
“Look, I’m pissed that you’d evenconsiderseeing her, let alone choose to get together for a catch-up.”
“Logan, we just…bumped into each other.”
I let out a long sigh of frustration, wishing this were easier. Wishing my mom could see this as the black and white situation it is instead of the gray area she wants it to be,
“I gotta go, okay?” I finally say, not wanting to stretch this out any longer. “Call me later, when you’renotspending time with the woman who destroyed our family.”
I click off from the call, both thankful to be off the phone as well as regretting the rude and abrasive way I ended our talk.
Rubbing my face with my palms, I give myself another moment of silence in the interior of my SUV before climbing out and heading inside, slamming the front door a little harder than I should to get out the last bit of irritation thrumming just beneath my skin.
My keys get looped on the small hook near the front door, and I kick off my shoes, the sound of my sock-covered feet muffled along the hardwood that stretches throughout the small two-bedroom home as I make my way toward the back.
