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Sophie Cast was enjoying a spring morning when the silence was shattered by a few beeps of the horn. She didn’t even have to look to see who was pulling into her driveway. It was Sophie’s twenty-six-year-old son Malcolm arriving in his moving van.
“Welcome. If you drive on my lawn, you’ll be on your hands and knees, seeding it before I let you in the door,” Sophie said. She smiled and was actually happy to have the company.
Malcolm lowered the window. "Did you forget that I drive for a living now? Your lawn will be fine,” he said, referring to his new gig as a ride-share driver. It was what he ended up with after four years of college and a three-year master’s program.
Malcolm parked the small moving truck in Sophie’s driveway.
“Things must have been bad at your father’s home in Brooklyn for you to move to Hempstead. I know Long Island isn’t exactly a social hot spot,” Sophie said.
“It’s fine. I make the most money when I work on Friday and Saturday nights driving around the drunks. I’d live anywhere to get out of Dad and Cindy’s house, and I get to live with you. You’re a stellar parent and good friend, too,” Malcolm said.
“Thanks. I figured out the parenting thing by the time you were twenty. Let’s go inside and decide where the heck you’re going to put all your stuff.” Malcolm followed her into the small bungalow she bought after her divorce from Roger, which had become her refuge of sorts. It was an area where she was sure not to run into her ex at the local coffee shop, although he had a two-thousand-dollar espresso machine, so he didn’t have to go out for coffee. Roger didn’t drink plain coffee like normal folks.
“Has the third bedroom become a storage space?” Malcolm asked. “I’d love a place for my drafting table. I’m more determined than ever to get a job as an architect. I could wallpaper my bedroom with my rejection letters, as there just isn’t a whole lot of building going on.”
“The room isn’t too bad. I have the garage for that, so I hope you haven’t planned to park your car in there.”
“No, I leased the car for my driving gig. I’m deep in debt and can’t afford a car right now,” Malcolm said.
“I had asked your father if I could leave some stuff in one of his spare rooms, but he turned me down flat. I’m sure it had something to do with Cindy not wanting to look at his ex-wife’s things,” Sophie said. “I’m getting myself tea; do you want anything?”
“No, I have my coffee.” Malcolm held up his jumbo cup. “You might need something stronger than tea when you hear the news I have to share.”
Sophie tried to look cool, but she wasn’t ready for even more life-altering news. She flipped her auburn hair and took a seat next to Malcolm on the couch. “Hit me with it. At this point, I can take anything except you having a terminal illness – please tell me that’s not it.”
“No, Mom. I’ve never been better. I’ve developed an exercise routine because I have little else to do,” Malcom said. “It has nothing to do with me, but it’s about Dad. He and Cindy are getting married, followed by a three-week European honeymoon.”
“Note that I didn’t cry or fly into a rage. It confirms what I suspected: Roger and Cindy have been involved for a lot longer than he admits. It’s not a shotgun wedding, is it?” Sophie asked.
“Oh, no. They aren’t pregnant yet,” Malcolm said.
“Yet?” Sophie asked incredulously.
Malcolm nodded. “That’s probably why he couldn’t have your stuff around. The small bedroom next to theirs is going to be the nursery.”
“I wanted to adopt after we had you, but your father insisted that having one was enough. It’s amazing what a young gal with a good plastic surgeon can do.”
“I sense you’re about to start getting nasty, and I hate going there. How about we change the subject?”
“Do you have friends coming to help you unload your things?” Sophie asked.
“No. Most live in Brooklyn, and getting someone to come out this far is nearly impossible. I’ll get it done. Are you okay, Mom?" Malcolm asked. “I know you’re strong, but you’ve had a lot with your father’s death, divorce, and now getting an unexpected roommate.”
“I miss my father, but I had him into my adult life, so I was fortunate. Your dad is in the midst of a mid-life crisis, but I’ve had plenty of therapy to teach me that it’s not my fault. It’s a lot, but I’m moving forward. As far as you moving in, I consider it a blessing. I’m tired of talking to myself and getting no response.”
“I’d worry if you were hearing a response,” Malcolm joked.
Sophie chuckled and put her head on her son’s shoulder.
She was happy to have her son around. Never in a million years did she picture herself at forty-nine and living on Long Island with her adult son. Not to mention, she worked at a wine bar, and he was the driver.
Five years ago, Sophie was settling into her life as an empty nester in her perfect Brooklyn brownstone. She was considering a job at the Brooklyn Historical Society or a role as a docent at one of New York’s many libraries. Roger had worked at the same hedge fund for years, and they had a considerable nest egg for their golden years.
The changes came fast and began when her cherished father, Bill, died suddenly while on the golf course. He had a cardiac arrest, and there wasn’t a defibrillator in his golf bag. Sophie learned that the stages of grief were legitimate, and she felt them all deeply, which took some time. Her divorce happened while she was in the anger phase, and that was bad timing. She lashed out at anyone in her orbit and there were no exceptions.
Two people had front row seats in her chaotic life: her best friend, Nina, and her mother, Vera. Nina had the sense of humor Sophie needed and an endless supply of compassion.
