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Luna
Iwoke Sunday morning to an empty bed and remembered that I told Roman to stay in the guest room downstairs until he moved out.
The room felt cold. Unwelcoming. It felt like someone else’s room. It was the room of a happy couple. That wasn’t us.
My head was still spinning from yesterday's revelations. My dad's confession sent me on a tailspin. What shocked me more was how my mom so willingly gave her forgiveness. I just don’t understand.
All the memories I have of my parents are good. I watched them always being in each other’s arms. They never shied away from showing affection in front of me and my brother. My dad came home from work and made a beeline for mom everyday. He always greeted her with a hug and kiss, and she welcomed him home the same way.
Whenever we’d drive in the car, the two of them held hands like teenagers. They talked about everything and never argued. At least not in front of us. Even their silent moments were spent together. Dad would watch the football game and mom would be right by his side, reading or knitting.
She was always in his arms and rarely did they separate to let us kids between the two of them. I see now how they always put each other first. They held their marriage above all else. It was their number one priority and in making it so, Lane and I grew up seeing what a happy marriage was truly like.
When our friend's parents were divorcing, ours were sending us off to our grandparents so they could have a weekend alone. They never felt guilty for taking the time for just them. And we never felt neglected.
But I just don’t know that I’m as strong as mom. I don’t know that I can “put it all in a box” and not bring it back when an argument arises.
The sound of little feet pounding on the stairs brings me out of my haze. I realize that the kids may question why daddy is sleeping downstairs and I hustle to get out of bed.
After quickly brushing my teeth, I make my way to them and come to an abrupt stop when I find Roman in the kitchen plating pancakes while the kids sit anxiously at the table.
“Wha-what are you doing?” I ask, surprising him and the kids.
“Mornin’ mommy,” they say.
Poppy hops down from her chair and waddles over to me. She holds her arms up, wordlessly asking me to pick her up. I scoop her up into my arms and give her a kiss on her little pink lips.
“Hi mama,” she whispers.
“Hi Poppy-seed,” I whisper back.
The mornings are always her quiet time. While Hunter and Helene jump out of bed with the energy of Tasmanian devils pumped full of caffeine, my sweet Poppy needs a good hour to warm up. Her voice is a little raspy and you’ll find her whispering her way through our morning routine.
But once that little girl is fully awake, she has the energy to outrun her siblings.
“Are you hungry, babe?” Roman calls out from where he stands at the stove.
“Um, not really,” I reply.
After Roman offered to stay with the kids so I could go out without them yesterday, I ended up spending the time alone. I needed to think without the opinions of my best friend or brother. Both of whom would have a very strong opinion on what I should do, and I could almost guarantee with certainty that they would not agree with mom and dad.
“You didn’t eat much for dinner.”
I lift one shoulder and let it fall without saying anything.
When I came home from my day of solitude, Roman had ordered takeout and was setting up cartons of Chinese food when I walked in. He served up all my favorites, but I barely picked at it. My nerves were doing a number on my appetite.
He gives me a small nod and turns off the burner after stacking the last pancake.
“Okay little gremlins. Let’s eat,” he calls out and they all cheer.
This is a side of him that I don’t ever recall seeing before. Too little, too late.
I put Poppy back in her chair, clipping her in with the little belt.
“I’ll get some milk,” I tell him.
“I’ve got it, babe,” Roman says, quickly, setting down the plate on the table and scurrying off to get the kids cups.
