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“Where did you hear the name Sheila?” she asks. I can tell she’s trying to regain her composure, her eyebrows knitting together in an inquisitive look. She sets down her wine glass, and I can see her employing the deep breathing techniques from her therapist.
I reach for the takeout bag from the top-notch Italian restaurant across town, meeting her eyes. I didn’t expect this kind of reaction. In truth, I was just making conversation. After all, at fourteen, I felt like there were few things I could talk about with my mom or wanted to talk about with my mom.
“Dad was on the phone yesterday when I got home from school. I heard him saying some weird stuff. Not to worry, that it would all be okay, that everyone understood. Then I heard him say Sheila. I figured it was a new secretary or something.”
I lift out my meal and pause as Mom looks visibly shaken. She’s never been a woman I’d consider strong, but perhaps that’s not really fair. Mom and I have always butted heads. I’ve always despised her lack of drive, how she seems okay just riding on Dad’s success and not fretting about building a life, a passion of her own. Now, though, I feel a mixing sense of dread and sorrow fill my chest.
“Mom?”
“She’s no one, dear. Now pass the salt.”
I freeze, blinking, wondering how everything can be so complicated yet so transparent in this family.
“Mom, answer me. Who is she?”
“Sage, just drop it, will you? Some things aren’t for you to know.” She raises her voice, and I can see tears starting to well in her eyes. My stomach drops.
“Dammit, Mom, I’m tired of all the secrets in this family. I’m tired of always being on the outside.”
“Sage Everling, you will change your tone. Now drop it.”
But it’s too late. Her composure cracks, the tears fall, and I know instinctively that life’s about to shift.
“Mom, just tell me,” I murmur, softer, more encouraging.
She meets my eyes, and woman to woman, we connect in a way we haven’t before.
“She’s your father’s mistress.”
Hearing the words stabs into me in a way I hadn’t expected. I’ve known since I was young that my parents aren’t perfect. Their condescending attitudes, their conniving, manipulative business methods, and their constant judgement of me have me ready to move out already. Still, there was one thing I could say.
They love each other.
They might be snooty, smug snobs most of the time, but they do it together. They’ve got each other’s backs. Their love is stable and, although I’d never admit it, is something I admire in them.
And now, that shatters. I don’t have to question the validity of Mom’s statement because I perhaps already knew. I knew that something didn’t sit right. I knew by the way Dad’s face burned with embarrassment when he saw me walk in that things were amiss.
But hearing the confirmation doesn’t make it any easier. “Mom, I’m sorry,” I say.
“No, I am,” she whispers. “I shouldn’t have said anything. This wasn’t for you to know.”
“Of course you should’ve told me. I’m sorry. Really, I am.”
I get up from my seat and cross the floor, wrapping my mom in my arms. It’s an uncharacteristically affectionate moment for us. We’ve never been the hugging, kissing type of family. In many ways, I’ve always been the outlier, the one on the outskirts not understanding what drives my parents. But now, nothing but sympathy rises up.
“So what now?” I whisper after a long moment when her tears have stopped. Mom shrugs.
“What do you mean?”
I study her. “I mean who is moving out? Did you file for divorce?”
She blinks at me before reaching for her wine glass.
“Mom?”
“Dear, it’s not that simple, you know. There’s business to think about, your legacy. Our image.”
I feel anger writhing inside of me, replacing the sympathy. “Do not tell me you’re taking him back.”
