that consumed me when they told me you were diabetic. No one told me how to take away your pain when you cried or were hurt or were frustrated. And as you got older, I had no idea how to get you to open up about the feelings trapped inside. And no one could have ever prepared me for you falling in love with a girl who deals drugs.”
“Really?” Both me and Mom’s heads snap up to find Dad standing in the doorway that leads outside. “I fell in love with you and you’re shocked your son fell in love with a girl who sells pot?”
Mom’s face twists as she tries to hide it, but the laugh escapes regardless and I can’t help but smile. Dad rejoins us at the table and touches the top of my head, messing my hair like I was a kid, before sitting down.
“How long were you there?” I ask.
“Walked out front and then came straight back here. Right around the time you figured out you ate something meatless.”
“Could have said something,” I say.
“Could have.” He leaves out that I was too busy busting in and calling him and Mom out.
I pick up the container with the spaghetti and meatless balls and put some on Mom’s plate and then a generous helping onto Dad’s. He scowls at the number of meatballs.
“Sorry for screwing up dinner,” I say.
“But we’re having it now.” Mom brightens and eats like it’s good.
“I divorced your Mom over the cooking. Putting that on my plate means premeditation.”
“You divorced me because I left and I couldn’t come back,” Mom says and both Dad and I go quiet. Mom’s never said that before and it’s an awkward kick in the gut. “I loved both of you, but being here every day just didn’t work for me. Sometimes I wish I was different than what I am, but I’m not.”
Mom pushes a meatball around with her fork and I reach over and squeeze her wrist. “You’re here now and you’re here when it counts.”
“You deserved a family that could stay intact.”
I think of Abby’s love and adoration for her father. I think of her biological mother, who sold Abby for heroin. Yeah, I have friends that have parents with rock solid marriages, and some who don’t. None of that matters though. I think I’m pretty damn lucky with what I got.
“You love me.” I stand, not wanting to see their reaction, open the fridge, and find the salad. “Both of you do. That’s enough.”
I set the salad on the table and my parents have gone mute. This emotional raw sharing is new and I hope it stays new. I don’t think I could handle this bullshit often. Mom scoops some salad onto her plate and Dad eats a meatless ball, washing it down with water. All these years have passed and he’ll joke, but when it comes down to it, his plate will be clean because he still doesn’t want to hurt her feelings.
That’s a real man right there.
“Your father always preferred eating dinner late,” Mom says. “Remember when you used to work second shift and I would have food waiting for you when you walked in?”
Dad does that grin that tells me he likes the memory. “She used to cook meat then. Real meat.”
“It was awful. I swear I could hear the poor little things screaming as I placed it in the pan. Do you remember how we used to make love before dessert?”
I choke on a cherry tomato. “Too much sharing.”
“It’s natural, Logan. How else do you think you were made?”
“Test tube. Did you miss I’m dating a drug dealer?”
“No,” says Mom. “And we didn’t miss that you’re in love with her, that she’s leaving it, and she’s leaving you.”
Dad just does that thing where he looks at me and I understand all the words he doesn’t know how to say. Like he’s sorry, that’s he’s been there, and it’s tough to lose someone you love.
“Think they have a parenting book on that?” Mom asks. “My Son was Dating a Drug Dealer? Because otherwise, I don’t know what to say. Other than I’m a little concerned I might have bought from her at some point. That would have been awkward. Is she vegetarian? What was her sign?”
I smile because Mom is being Mom and Dad starts in on how she’s too old to smoke pot. I listen to their playful banter, eat another meatless ball and look at the two people sharing