“Yes, and he always apologizes and says he’ll do better, but nothing ever changes.” I pause and think about the many conversations we’ve had about the time he spends at the restaurant. “I want to be supportive of his career because I know what he went through with his father. I don’t want him to ever regret quitting law school, because I’m the one who encouraged him—which ended up causing a permanent rift in his family.”
“You blame yourself for that?” she asks with a touch of surprise.
“A little.”
Becky shakes her head. “Well don’t, because Nate wanted to be a chef long before he met you, so you can’t take responsibility for a decision he made for himself. He was a grown-up.”
“That’s true,” I reply. “But here we are, almost twenty years later, and I’m afraid he’s turning into his father.” I take another sip of wine. “Not because he’s controlling or intimidating. He’s not that way at all. It’s kind of the opposite, actually. He’s so obsessed with earning that Michelin star that he doesn’t seem engaged in his kids’ lives at all, which I’m afraid makes them feel like he doesn’t care.”
Becky fiddles with an earring. “Have Connor and Amanda ever expressed that to you?”
“Connor hasn’t,” I reply, “but I sense how he feels. You saw it in the car. And yes, Amanda has talked to me about it because she’s sixteen, and as you know, she expresses her emotions openly.”
“And dramatically,” Becky replies with a wink.
The oven beeps to let me know it’s reached the set temperature, so I rise from the stool and slide the casserole dish inside. I return to Becky and refill both our wineglasses.
She lets out a woeful sigh. “I’m sorry you’re going through this. I wish you were married to someone who could put you first, like Jacob would have done.”
I close my eyes for a moment, take a breath, and open them. “Please don’t compare Nate to Jacob. That’ll never be a fair fight.”
Becky rubs the back of her neck. “Sorry. You’re right. Because Jacob was a saint. We’ll always think of him that way because he never had a chance to go through life and disappoint us.”
We sit in silence, pondering the deeper connotations of that statement.
I sit forward and touch her knee. “Thank you for being here for me. But when it comes down to it, I can’t bear to live with any more could-have-beens. I married Nate because I loved him, and I enjoyed giving him what I knew he was missing in his life—which was love and support. And I enjoyed watching him thrive when he worked for my dad and did well in cooking school. I was so proud of him. I’mstillproud of him—that he overcame that awful pressure from his father. It’s why I’ve let him get away with so much.”
“I get it,” Becky says. “You don’t want to crush his dreams like his father did.”
“I definitely don’t.” I sit for a moment and reconsider everything I just said. “But now it sounds like he was a project for me, but that’s not how it was. We were both damaged, which is why we were good for each other. We were ready at the same time for a fresh start. That’s why we connected so deeply and so fast. We helped each other through some big changes.”
Becky listens to all this but doesn’t let me off the hook. “Okay. I get all that. But that was then, and this is now, and it sounds like you both need to find a new common ground. And don’t feel guilty about that. You’re not Nate’s father. You’re his wife and the mother of his children, and his children need him.”
I think about all this—about us being parents—as I fiddle with a hangnail on my thumb. “It’s been years since Nate has spoken to hisfather,” I tell her. “And I’m pretty sure the real reason he wants that Michelin star so badly is to impress him. I think, deep down, Nate’s real dream is for his father to walk into Oblique, have the best meal of his life, pull Nate into his arms, and say, ‘Well done, son. I’m proud of you.’ But it bothers me that he’s trying to fix something from the past instead of being grateful for what he hastoday.”
The front door opens, and I jump.
“I’m home!” Amanda shouts from the front hall.
“We’re in the kitchen!” I reply and speak quietly to Becky. “Let’s talk about this later.”
“I’ll pencil it in.”
I rise from the stool to greet my daughter, who has just come home from her part-time job lifeguarding at the indoor pool.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
She stops and stares at me. “Not really.”
“It’s chicken lasagna,” I reply, knowing it’s her favorite, but I recognize that something’s not right.
Amanda shrugs and continues to stare at me because she knows I can read her like a book.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She quickly shakes her head.
“That girl again?”
