The fork clattered against the plate where he dropped it, and I stared as he strode away.
Resentment boiled in me, and I imagined throwing the used fork at his head. Instead, I followed him. “Have you spoken with Camilla?” I asked.
“No. Why?” He turned as he entered our bedroom, then went directly into his closet. “What’s the problem now?”
I bristled but ignored his nonsensical statement. Camilla was always a delight. “Jeff invited her to the Maldives when school ends this year, and I think he might propose.” I waited, but Robert didn’t respond. “I think we need to have a talk with her before they leave.”
Robert reappeared in sweatpants and a T-shirt. “I think you spend too much time worrying about what other people are doing. What I’m eating, when I get home, where our adult daughter goes on vacation. We aren’t paying for that, are we?” he asked as an afterthought.
“No. And I don’t care where she goes on vacation. I care that she might end up married before she finishes college. We need to encourage her to take things slowly and enjoy her life before settling down.”
Robert grunted. “If she’s happy, why interfere?”
“The wedding will cost you at least a hundred thousand dollars,” I snapped, knowing that mentioning money would likely get his attention.
His expression turned bewildered. “It’s our only daughter’s wedding. Would you prefer a backyard barbecue?” He laughed at his terrible joke. “That sounds like something your parents would’ve suggested, actually.”
As usual, I’m thrown by his response. Normally he made me believe saving money was all that mattered. It wasn’t long ago he’d ranted and lectured me for buying a six-dollar box of Girl Scout cookies, as if I’d committed a capital offense, but tonight a one-hundred-thousand-dollar wedding was no big deal. I could never predict his reactions as much as I tried, and this was a prime example.
I shook off the mental whiplash and moved on. I wouldn’t get any support for my concern for Camilla, so I provoked him. “Speaking of my parents,” I said, “my mom worries me.”
He scoffed. “Is that supposed to be news?”
I steadied myself with a hand against the bedroom doorframe. “I think she needs help.”
“You think she needs money,” he corrected, tossing the emphasis back to his usual point of view.
“Maybe.”
“Your dad set her up nicely for their lifestyle. If she blows through the savings, that’s not on us.”
“I think her health is declining,” I said. “She’s not managing her diabetes.”
He hooked headphones around the back of his neck and stared down at me, waiting for me to move.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve had a long day, and I need to blow off some steam,” he said. “I’m going to the treadmill, though I still don’t see why it has to be all the way in the basement.”
He’d let me choose the home gym location. I didn’t understand why he’d asked me at the time, since the space was primarily intended for him. Over the years I’d come to understand his reasoning. He rarely worked out without first complaining that I set it up so far away and in such an inconvenient location. One more way to say I screwed up, or let him down. One more example of my ineptitude and incompetence.
I moved aside, and he brushed past me into the hallway.
“Don’t give her any money,” he said over one shoulder as he jogged down the steps.
I climbed back into bed and fell asleep to visions of Robert being shot off the back of the treadmill at high speed.
In the morning, I left a note on the kitchen counter advising Robert that I’d gone to Pilates. On the off chance he came home while I was away, I didn’t want him to call or question me. I didn’t have the bandwidth to fight.
Mom lived in an older neighborhood two towns away. A twenty-five-minute drive into local history. Everything near the home I shared with Robert was new and shiny. Condominiums and gated communities surrounded by highways, upscale shopping and dining.
Harbor Heights, however, was the epitome of historic Virginia. Ancient oak trees lined uneven brick streets, their gnarled, reaching limbs entwined gently overhead. Morning sunlight filtered through the mossy, web-covered branches, creating a sparkling midday mosaic across the ground.
I smiled as I drove, appreciating the peacefulness and beauty. I’d loved growing up here, within walking distance of an active and community-centered downtown. Tidy brick homes with brightly colored doors and cheerful wreaths anchored green postage stamp yards. And ghosts of my childhood pedaled past me on tricycles, racing the boy next door.
Everything in sight was quaint, Southern, and charming.
Until I turned the corner, and Mom’s place came into view. The once adorable cottage where I’d spent my first eighteen years was now the eyesore of the block, if not the entire street. A weathered gray porch and sun-bleached red door greeted neighbors and passersby. The home’s chipped yellow paint and cracked white trim were the icing on a rotten cake. A ratty old wreath, the cherry on top.
