As far as I know, this is the first he’s ever admitted any wrongdoing and, as such, it feels like a shocking admission. It must to my mother, as well, because now she looks like she might cry.
He continues, more gingerly, “I wish I had handled things differently . . . I really do. Things weren’t going well with your mother and me — I think she’d agree with that.” He glances her way and then continues, “But I looked for solutions in all the wrong places. I was a fool.”
“Oh, David,” my mother says under her breath, her eyes welling.
“It’s true. I was stupid,” he says. “And Nick is stupid, too.”
My mother gives him a knowing look as it suddenly dawns on me that their intervention was not only planned, but possibly rehearsed. Then she says, “Although, obviously . . . we don’t know what was in Nick’s head . . . or why he did what he did.”
“Right. Right,” my dad says. “But what I’m trying to say ... is that I think your mother and I —”
“We made a lot of mistakes,” she interjects as he nods.
I feel a wave of nostalgia, remembering our dinner conversations growing up, how much the two used to interrupt each other, more when they were getting along and happy than when their relationship was stormy, marked by silent gridlocks and standoffs. “I was depressed and frustrated and hard to live with. And he,” she says, pointing at my father and nearly smiling, “was a cheating son of a bitch.”
My dad raises his brows and says, “Gee. Thanks, Barb.”
“Well, you were,” she says, releasing a high, nervous laugh.
“I know,” he says. “And I’m sorry.”
“Duly noted,” she says — which is as close as she has ever come to forgiving him.
I look from one parent to the other, unsure if I feel better or worse, but thoroughly perplexed as to their overarching point. Are they implying that I somehow contributed to this mess? That Nick had an affair because he’s not happy? That marriage is more about how you manage a catastrophe than commitment and trust? Or are they simply caught up in their own bizarre feel-good moment?
My father must sense my confusion because he says, “Look, Tess. Your mother and I are just trying to impart some of the wisdom we collected the hard way. We’re just trying to tell you that sometimes it’s not about the affair —”
“But you married Diane,” I say, avoiding eye contact with my mother.
He waves this off as if his current wife is utterly beside the point. “Only because your mom left me . . .”
Clearly liking this version of their history, she smiles — a warm, real smile, allowing him to continue.
“Sweetie, here’s what we’re trying to say,” my father says. “Marriages are funny, complicated, mysterious things . . . and they go through cycles. Ups and downs, like anything else . . . And they shouldn’t really be defined by one act, albeit a terrible one.”
“Multiple acts, perhaps,” my mother says, unable to resist the Softball. “But not one, singular mistake.”
My father raises his palms in the air as if to say he has no defense, and then continues her train of thought. “That said, you don’t have to be okay with his transgression. You don’t have to forgive Nick,” my dad says. “Or trust him.”
“They aren’t the same thing,” my mother says. “Forgiving and trusting.”
Her message is clear — she might have forgiven my father the first time around, but she never trusted him again, not even for a second. Hence her undercover work and her grim, but unsurprising, Diane discovery.
“I know, Barbie,” he says, nodding. “I’m just trying to say that Tess has a decision to make. And it is her decision. Not Nick’s—or her brother’s, or mine, or yours.”
“Agreed,” my mom says.
“And no matter what, we’re on your side,” my father adds. “Just as we’ve always been.”
“Yes,” my mother says. “Absolutely. One hundred percent.”
“Thank you,” I say, realizing that this might be what hurts more than anything else—the fact that I always thought Nick was that person who would always, no matter what, absolutely, one hundred percent, be on my side. And the fact that I was absolutely, one hundred percent wrong.
And just like that, my anger dissipates, supplanted once again by a thick, murky grief.
***
A short time later, the three of us return home from lunch, and are standing together in the driveway, saying our extended good-byes before my father leaves for the airport. My parents both appear perfectly at ease, and to watch their casual body language, you’d think they were very old friends, not two people who were married for nearly twenty-five years before going through a bitter divorce.
“Thanks for coming to Boston, Dad,” I say, ready to get out of the cold. “I really appreciate it.”
My father gives me another hug—his third since we left the restaurant—yet makes no move toward his rental car, instead commenting that he could take a later flight.
I look at my mom, who shrugs and smiles her permission.