Love and Sorrow (Small Town Secrets Book 5), стр. 23

“Hey, mom?”

“Yes?”

“How come you and dad aren’t married anymore?”

My stomach clenched.  At least twice a year since the divorce, Devon would ask, and I’d remind myself that he was young and needed to hear it again.  He probably didn’t remember much of when Mike and I were together, and I prayed he had no memories of the beatings or the verbal abuse my ex had regularly rained down on me.

Devon probably hoped it would change between Mike and me.  From what I knew of his classmates, a lot of his friends’ parents were still together, so it was hard for him to understand.  The easiest course of action was to give him the same answer I’d given him before.  “Daddy and I love you, Devon, but we just couldn’t live together anymore.”

“Why not?”

Today, I wouldn’t tell him the real reason:  because your dad’s an abusive asshole.  “Well, because…because your dad and I just didn’t get along.”

For the first time on this trip, Sarah spoke up.  “He was mean.”

In response, my son raised his voice.  “He is not!”

Holy shit.  Nowadays, Sarah’s neutral state was one of malaise and reticence—so, for her to voice a strong emotion or opinion about anything jolted me.  I definitely knew where it was coming from, and now I understood why she hadn’t wanted to spend time at Mike’s—but I’d always tried hard not to say disparaging remarks about his father in front of the kids, mostly because my ex had never displayed one iota of abusive intent toward Devon, and I was certain it would remain that way.  After all, the guy was a misogynist and he loved his kid, no matter how he felt about women—but could I communicate that to Devon without downplaying Sarah’s feelings and opinion that most certainly was rooted in reality?

I had to take a chance—because, if I didn’t, this could brew into something else later at my parents’ house when I wasn’t around to do damage control.  “Devon, your dad and I grew apart, and that’s why we’re not together anymore.  I know you love him, but he was mean to me and sometimes Sarah.  Sometimes when people aren’t happy anymore, they do mean things—but that doesn’t make your dad a mean person.”  Looking at my daughter through the rearview mirror, I prayed this was enough to appease both my children.  “Right, Sarah?”

“I guess.”  She wasn’t looking at me, but at least she was talking.  Although she’d been on the verge of anger moments earlier, she’d already returned to this apathetic state.

Devon asked, “Is it like how you said even though Brady is a jerk, it doesn’t make him a bad person?  It was—what did you say?”

Oh, kindergarten.  I’d almost forgotten.  Devon and Brady, another child in his class, had some sort of argument midway through the year, and the teacher had talked with me about it after school.  For the remainder of the school year, they’d continued to clash.  One evening after pondering how to approach it, I’d told Devon that sometimes there are people you don’t get along with, but that “doesn’t mean that you or he are bad people.  You just don’t get along.”

And then I remembered the phrase he was thinking of.  “A personality clash.”

“Yeah.  Personality clash.  Is that what happened with you and dad?”

“You could say that.”  Although it was the understatement of the century.

Fortunately, Devon seemed happy with the answer and took another bite out of his cheeseburger.  Sarah was back to looking like she didn’t give a shit about anything, and as I raced down the highway, I wondered why I hadn’t ordered anything for myself other than a Diet Coke.  Trying to ignore my rumbling stomach and thundering thoughts, I drove slightly over the speed limit until we neared the town nestled in the mountains, Chipeta Springs, where my parents had moved not long after I’d gone off to college.

Just a few minutes of driving through the tiny town and we arrived in my parents’ driveway next to their neat-as-a-pin manicured lawn.  I grabbed the bags I’d packed for the kids that lay in the passenger seat as the kids got out of the van.  Silently, as if we were attending a funeral, we walked up to the door.  Although I rang the doorbell, I also opened the door and let them know it was us.  “We’re here!”

My mother’s soprano voice rang out.  “Come on in!” As we entered the living room, my mother emerged from the kitchen.  I knew objectively that Adele Miller was a lovely woman, with light brown hair and sharp green eyes and a thin face.  Thanks to her expert hairdresser, her locks looked as shiny and vibrant as they did in her wedding photos—and, although my mother was in her mid-fifties, she looked like she did ten years ago.  It didn’t hurt that her figure was as slender and firm as it had been when I’d lived at home.  My mom was religious about exercise and fanatic about appearances—and, as I pondered it, how had I ever thought I could escape her scrutiny and judgment when she was just as hard on herself?

Not unkindly, my mother walked over to me and gave me a gentle hug.  “Honey, you look tired.”

“I am tired, mom.”

She turned to Devon, who promptly wrapped his arms around her neck when she bent over.  “I’ve missed you, grandma.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” she said, tousling his hair.  “Why don’t you take your things to your room?”  Devon picked up his bag and ran off before I could say another word to him, and my mother focused her attention on Sarah.  My daughter didn’t look quite as enthusiastic as Devon, though, so my mom lifted her chin.  “Hi, pumpkin pie.  How are you, sweetheart?”  When she embraced Sarah, my daughter responded by squeezing her back, burying her head in her chest—but she continued saying nothing.  “I guess you’ve missed me, too.”  When