The lawn in front of my parents’ house is pristine—a deep, lush emerald green. My father is on his hands and knees, using a pair of tweezers to pull out an imperceptibly small weed at the edge of a perfectly elliptical planting area that contains several seal-gray boulders and a single bushy western hemlock that towers over the house’s flat roof.
My parents have lived in the same neighborhood my entire life. And for my entire life, my dad has always had the best lawn.
“We’re a little early—Pepper, stay off the grass,” I warn the dog. “Go to the neighbor’s yard.”
My dad smiles as Pepper takes a restroom break on a patch of scraggly grass next door.
“My girls!” Dad greets Lauren and me gruffly, pulling us into a hug, his mustache scratchy on my forehead.
My sister wiggles out of his grasp, but I hold on to him. I desperately want to ask someone for help, especially him—I am a daddy’s girl through and through. But the stalker is my problem. I am the one who invited him into my life. My dad is getting older and has been retired for several years, and I don’t want Jaxon to ruin his life too. Dad worked hard in the aerospace industry with a stressful job as an engineer. He doesn’t need to deal with my problems during his retirement.
The window next door opens, and an elderly woman yells out, “Keep your dog off my lawn!”
The door of my parents’ house bursts open, and my mother screams, “You call that patch of weeds a lawn,Nancy? That dog did you a favor. You spend twenty thousand dollars on sod, and this is what you have to show for it? Shameful.”
“I’m posting this on Nextdoor,” Nancy screeches then slams the window shut.
My mom beams at my dad. “See?” Then she props her glasses on her head and inspects me. “You have to speak a man’s love language if you want to keep him around.”
“I love you.” My father gives her a noisy kiss on the lips. “And she’s making my favorite for dinner.”
“It’s lunch,” Lauren complains loudly. “If it’s served at two, it’s lunch.”
“We’ve all been up since five.” My mother ushers us inside. “I had water-aerobics class, then I had to pick up your grandmother from the gas station.”
“It’s public property. I am allowed to be at the gas station,” my grandmother yells from the sunken living room, the ice cubes in her glass of wine clinking against the rim.
“Watch your step,” my mom warns me.
“Yes, Mom, I know there’s a step here.” At the wet bar, I set down the box of wine I brought.
“I can’t worry about you? Your own mother? I carried you in my womb for nine months.” My mother huffs into the kitchen.
“Thank god, reinforcements. Give me a top-up, girlie.” Gran waves her glass at me.
“What were you doing at the gas station, Gran?” I top up her glass and pour my own.
“Soliciting,” my mother shouts from the kitchen where she’s checking the twice-baked-potato casserole.
“I wasn’t. Like I told the cops, I was there for a hot dog, some Funyuns, and a pop.”
“You know the snacks there are way overpriced.” I flop down on the couch across from Gran, sinking into the comfortable, familiar cushions.
Lauren sprawls out next to me. “You need to go to Costco.”
“What do you know about grocery shopping, Lauren?” Gran snorts. “I thought your boyfriend dumped you because you weren’t wife material?”
My father sucks in a breath then slowly backs out of the room.
“He didn’t leave me because I was a bad homemaker. He left me because he got some college girl pregnant.” Lauren makes a grabbing gesture, and I roll my eyes and hand her my wine glass. “This tastes like cheap grape juice.”
“It’s eight percent ABV—so what if it tastes like cat piss?” Gran grabs a handful of ice and dumps it into her wine.
“And it was only three dollars,” I add, pouring myself a new glass.
“I, for one, am glad Kenny’s out of your life.” My mother bustles back in with a midwestern charcuterie board. That’s right—just because my parents haven’t lived in the Midwest for almost forty years doesn’t mean they’ve abandoned their culinary traditions.
The QVC wood board holds slices of cheddar cheese, Ritz crackers, and slices of that sausage that you find next to the sandwich meat at the grocery store, the stuff that tastes like salt and bouillon cubes.
