“Thanks, Mom!” He gave me a peck on the cheek and bounced out the door. I started to ask him where he was going, but he was eighteen, and we were still navigating that awkward you-are-an-adult-but-you-still-live-under-my-roof-dammit stage.
Although it would’ve been helpful to know when he was coming back, because the last thing I needed was for him to walk in on the discussion I was about to have with his father. With a sigh I grabbed the first basket of clothes and headed to the laundry room.
So much for being caught up on laundry.
The front door opened.Please tell me that child doesn’t have a third basket.
I yelled over my shoulder. “Just a minute!”
I put the last of the first load into the washer and turned to run smack-dab into ... Mitch.
He smiled at me, and I studied his blue eyes for treachery and betrayal. He’d gotten hair implants a couple of years ago, so he looked younger than his impending fifty years. He leaned in for a kiss, but I stepped back.
“What’s this all about?” he asked.
Of all the godforsaken places in which to have this conversation, I would not have it in the laundry room. “You just surprised me, that’s all.”
I brushed past him into the kitchen. He followed me, frowning at all the containers of brownies and cookies and bread and cake. “You gearing up for a bake sale?”
I laughed, but the sound came out a rusty bark. “Something like that.”
“You all right there, Viv?” he asked in an annoyingly calm voice. He even had the audacity to smile at me.
Now the smile was sliding downward. “Vivian?”
You want to divorce me, yet there you are standing and smiling as if nothing is wrong.
I had to say something. I had to ask the hard question. I had to recoup my ability to string words into sentences.
Since that last thing simply wasn’t happening, I retreated to the bedroom for the folder and brought it into the kitchen. I handed it to Mitch. His expression mutated from curiosity to surprise to realization.
“So,” he said.
“So.”
My hands clenched into fists. No way was I going to start this conversation. He’d started it when he put together those worksheets.
“Vivian, I would like to get a divorce.”
Such a civil tone for such warlike words.
My knees buckled. I told them to buck up. “Why?”
“Why?”
“Yes, Mitchell, why? What exactly have I done so wrong that you feel the need to skulk behind my back and start doing the paperwork for a divorce without even talking to me?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
Rage snapped behind my eyes, and I grabbed the counter to keep from reaching into the knife drawer.
“There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Oh, that’s comforting.” If sarcasm were cash, I’d be richer than Oprah. “So it’s not me. It’s you.”
“Something like that.” He reached into the fridge and took out the CorningWare container of chicken salad I’d made for him.
