I didn’t sleep at all that night. At 6:00 a.m., I got out of bed and made pancakes for Dylan, my tears hissing in the cast-iron pan.
Months ago, my son had asked that we not fly out to the University of Montana with him. “It’ll be hard enough as it is, Mom,” he’d said. “Plus, football camp starts the same day we move in, so I’d have to ditch you an hour after I got there.”
I’d offered to do it anyway, saying I could make up his bed and unpack his stuff, hang his posters, all that. He’d kindly rejected the offer. Brad (who’d still been pretending to love me) held me as I cried that night in our bedroom. “Honey, I know it’s hard,” he said. “But it’s a great sign that he’s independent enough to do this himself.”
Another punishment for having done a good job raising my son.
Today, Dylan’s room was packed, and we’d already shipped four boxes of stuff to Montana. I’d bought every over-the-counter medicine, vitamin and supplement I could find in case of cold, flu, stomach bug, muscle aches, wound, infection, fever. Every comfort—heating pad, hot-water bottle, special neck pillow. Tons of Cape Cod reminders: a Wellfleet sign, a tunnel permit sticker (there was no tunnel; we just liked to torture the tourists as they sat in bridge traffic). A great white shark T-shirt, an oyster shell key chain in silver. I even sneaked in his favorite little stuffed animal from when he was tiny—Lambie, a Beanie Baby Dylan had slept with from birth to age thirteen. A soft throw blanket in manly gray with a maroon pillow to match the Montana Grizzlies colors. I bought a rug for his room, a cool lamp, some posters. A photo of my dad, Dylan and me on the beach; a photo of the view from our house in the fall; a picture of Milo, who had slept on Dyllie’s bed all those years.
I wanted him to be surrounded by things he loved, things that would make him feel not so far away, things that would help him if he needed it. Things that would remind him how loved he was.
Dylan was quiet at breakfast. “Thanks for making these, Mom,” he said, and I heard the nervousness in his voice.
“You’re welcome, baby,” I said.
“Well, we better go!” Brad announced cheerfully, coming in from the guest room. “We have to leave some time for traffic.”
The car had been packed the night before. Dylan only needed his backpack. He thudded up the stairs and careened back down, then stood for a minute in the living room, looking out at the view. When he turned to face me, his eyes were wet.
“We’ll FaceTime as much as you want,” I said around the shard of glass in my throat. “It’s a big change, honey, but you’ve got this. And you can come home whenever you need to.”
Dylan nodded, then went outside. “I’m just gonna run down to the dock,” he said, and took off.
“A new beginning for all of us,” Brad said quietly.
“Shut the fuck up,” I answered.
“So bitter,” he said.
“You bet your ass I am.” Our handsome son came running back up a second later, so athletic, so manly, and my heart cracked like glass. “Ready, honey?”
“I guess so,” he said. “Yellowstone, here I come!”
He was quiet until the bridge. Once we crossed, though, he started talking about the weather in Missoula (surprisingly hot), how the team was going to get a guided tour of Yellowstone and camp out for two nights, how he hoped to see a grizzly bear and at least one or two moose.
“Just not up close,” I said. Good God. My son was going to a state where people were eaten by bears. Yes, I had bought bear spray, but maybe I should get more? And what about moose? They killed more people than grizzlies! “Be careful if you see a moose,” I had to say, because if I didn’t, what if he was attacked by the rampaging beast and I had said nothing? “They’re not very coordinated, so you can dodge around trees to avoid them.”
“Good to know,” Dylan said, laughing a little.
“Did you hear the story of how the wolves were reintroduced to Yellowstone?” Brad asked, even though we’d all listened to the podcast together last summer in the car. Nevertheless, he launched into the tale as if he’d lived it. Dylan didn’t mind, making the appropriate noises here and there as I vacillated between hatred for my husband and love for my son.
Think of Dylan, I told myself. The best thing you’ve ever done. No matter what, you raised him, and he’s wonderful.
We got to Logan airport way too soon. The one day of the entire century that there was no Boston traffic. Because we couldn’t wait at the gate with him, we just pulled up at the curb for our goodbyes. Dylan bounded out, grabbed his backpack, and set it on the sidewalk.
“Well,” Brad said. “Good luck, son. I’m proud of you. Call us when you get there, okay?”
“I will,” Dylan said. They hugged, slapping each other on the back, and Brad got in the car.
Then it was my turn. “Well,” I said, my voice a little husky. “It’s going to be fantastic, and you’ll have the best time.”
His eyes grew shiny. “Thanks, Mom,” he said. Then he hugged me, a real hug this time, and I stifled a sob, because this brawny man-child in front of me—this little boy who had laughed so much, who once loved nothing more than making Play-Doh sculptures with me—was leaving, and nothing would ever be the same.
“I love you,” I said, and my voice cracked a little.
“I know. I love you, too.” He hugged me a little harder, then let me go. “I’ll call you from Chicago.”
“Okay, honey. Love you so much.” I turned to the car, then turned back. “Dylan. You’re gonna have the time of your life, honey.”
“Thanks, Mommy.”
Oh, God. He hadn’t called me that in years.
Then he shouldered his bags and walked into the airport.
* * *
Brad packed that same afternoon.
“I’ll be living with Melissa,” he said, as if I didn’t know that already. Still, the words burned like acid. “I want you to know she and I are getting married as soon as possible. I’m sorry if that hurts you, but I can’t be responsible for your feelings, as you know.”
How I hated him.
Two weeks from now, we were due in court, and with that, our marriage would be over. Our family would be broken forever. No more Christmases, no holding hands in a waiting room as Dylan’s future wife gave birth to our grandchild. No more the three of us, laughing as we played Scattergories at the kitchen table; no more glancing at Brad as my mother and Beatrice polished off another bottle of wine. I hated my husband, and yet I couldn’t just pretend we’d never been happy, the way Brad seemed to be doing.
We’d finalized the settlement . . . I got the house, of course. But I also got the $337,000 we owed on it, thanks to twenty years of renovations. How I would pay that off, I had no idea. He, on the other hand, was marrying a woman who was richer than Bill Gates.
I leaned in the doorway of the guest room, determined to make this as uncomfortable for him as possible. He ignored me, carefully folding his new clothes, his new toiletries, his new workout gear, and putting them neatly into his suitcase. There was still an airline tag on it from the last time we’d used it—our anniversary a few years ago. We’d gone to beautiful Pittsburgh, because we got a flight for fifty-nine dollars, and we stayed in a nice hotel and ate delicious food and made love in the king-sized bed.
When had he changed? When had he stopped loving me? Why?
“Listen,” he said, straightening. “I know we’ve discussed this, but I’d really like the engagement ring back. It’s been in my family for three generations. I’ll even pay you for it.”
“Nope.”
“Lillie. It was my great-grandmother’s. It should stay in the Fairchild family.”
“Still nope.”
His face grew tight. “I’d like to give it to Melissa.”
“Oh, okay, well, then, here.” I pretended to take it off. “Whoops! Actually . . . nope! It was given with the intent that I would marry you, which I did. It’s mine.”