“Oh, awesome!” he said, sounding genuinely happy, and I was glad I’d included them.
I wanted to tell him that Hannah and I were getting closer, and that I suspected his grandfather had a girlfriend, and that I’d taken two weeks of vacation during this break so I could have as much time as possible with him. But it was hard, knowing how much to say to your almost-adult son, especially when he had so much to face here at home, thanks to Brad.
I glanced at him. “Anything you want to talk about, honey?”
He looked out his window. “Dad asked me to come over for dinner with them.”
“Mm.” Even though I knew this had been coming, the pain hit me in the heart.
“I kind of have to see him, Mom. He’s still my father.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
“And . . . you know. The . . .”
“The baby.” I kept my gaze forward.
“Yeah.”
With me driving, we didn’t have to make eye contact. We’d had so many conversations this way, in this very car, from him admitting in first grade that a boy bullied him on the bus to the awkward questions about puberty, and later, to whether or not he should have sex with his high school girlfriend. He never went to Brad with these issues, or if he did, Brad never told me.
“How are you feeling about that, honey?” I asked gently.
“Shitty.” I waited. “That’s it, Mom. Shitty. I haven’t even met her, I don’t want to meet her, but apparently I’m a stepbrother and have a half sibling in the making.”
“It’s a lot,” I said.
“And I’m still like, ‘Fuck you, Dad, you cheated on my mother,’ but also . . .” His voice trailed off.
“What, Dyllie?”
He looked out his window. “Also, I . . . I miss him. I’ve barely even talked to him since you guys told me you were splitting up. He’s texted and left messages and emailed. Then he sent me a text about becoming a big brother. And I saw the video, like everyone else in the world.”
Brad had texted our son. He texted that news. The shithead.
“I don’t know how to feel,” Dylan said, sounding wretched. “But I feel like I have to see him. And then I feel like that’s stabbing you in the back, and I hate that. I hate this whole thing. Everything’s so different now, I feel like I’m gonna start bawling when I walk in the door.”
“Listen, sweetheart,” I said, glancing at him and taking his big hand. “It’s a mess, and you get to be mad about it. And you get to miss your father, too.”
“I don’t know who he is anymore. He has an Instagram and a TikTok, Mom. No offense, but you guys are way too old for that.”
“No, I agree,” I said with an inner eye roll. I was forty-one. I wasn’t too old for anything. “I don’t know what to tell you, Dylan. But you don’t have to worry about stabbing me in the back. You only have one father.”
I doubted that Brad would ever stick up for me this way. Instead, he’d try to manipulate Dylan into believing that yes, Brad did deserve joy, and it didn’t matter how that happened or how he lied and cheated, because “it takes two” and we’d “grown apart.”
But I was trying to be a selfless mother. It really sucked sometimes.
Dylan wiped his eyes on his sweatshirt. “So if I do go over, you won’t be mad or feel . . . I don’t know. Betrayed?”
“No,” I lied. “He divorced me, honey. Not you. He loves you, and even if he’s a little . . . embarrassing right now, he’s always loved you. We both have, and we both always will.”
Dylan squeezed my hand. “Thanks, Mommy,” he said, giving me the rare gift of using the name he’d called me the first twelve years of his life. “I really appreciate the lack of a guilt trip.”
I squeezed his hand, too. “You’re welcome. But I have plenty planned for the future, just in case.”
He laughed at that, then let go of my hand.
“Tell me about Chloe,” I said, and he did, imitating her Montana accent, telling me how she made fun of his Cape Cod vowels. Her parents’ home was huge and posh, as I’d seen when we FaceTimed on Thanksgiving. She had two younger brothers who’d liked him right away. It sounded like the family was wealthy—they were well traveled, and Dylan said they owned a ranch.
“They want me to come to Spain with them this summer,” he added.
“Wow! Spain!” For how long? I wanted to demand. My heart clenched, and my mind calculated the cost of the plane ticket.
“I said we’ll see, but if I do, she definitely has to come to the Cape. She has no idea what the East Coast is like.”
“She’s more than welcome anytime, honey.” Thank you, Saint Anthony.
Zeus was almost hysterical with joy that I’d brought him a very tall, two-legged playmate. Dylan collapsed in the front hall, allowing himself to be licked, jumped on, pawed, snuzzled and licked some more.
“He’s awesome, Mom,” Dylan said. “Aren’t you, boy? You are! You’re wicked pissah, buddy! Yes, you are! Yes, you are!”
Getting a dog had been a smart move on so many levels.
Then Dylan got to his feet and looked around. His eyes got shiny. “Shit,” he whispered.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” I said, my own eyes stinging.
“Whatever. It’s not your fault. It’s just . . . weird. I expect him to come in any sec.”
“Yeah.” I wanted to redecorate a little, at least buy a new couch, but the literature had said to wait a bit, for Dylan’s sake. Also, new couches were expensive.
With a huge sigh, Dylan shouldered his duffel bag. “This is all dirty, by the way,” he said. “Sorry. The dorm washing machines were all taken.”
“Of course. Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Damn right you will.” There. The mood was lighter. “You want a nap before Hannah and Pop come over?”
“Maybe. Hey, is Ben coming, too?”
I had told Dylan about my recent tenant, of course. “I didn’t invite him, no,” I said.
“Okay. I’m sure I’ll bump into him. I gotta get a good picture of this dog and text it to Chloe. Zeus! Come here, boy! Come on, buddy.” My dog—or Dylan’s dog, apparently—ran up the stairs on Dylan’s heels.
It was so good to have my boy back in my house. For the next four weeks, I could cook for him, watch TV with him, beat him at Scrabble, take walks with him. We’d go to P-town tomorrow for Christmas shopping, because other than University of Montana gear and mugs, Dylan hadn’t bought any gifts yet.
Christmas morning would be . . . different. But for Christmas Eve, I’d invited a few extra people. Wanda, Addo and Leila always came, since their families were from away, and this year, Carol would also come, because her daughter was flying out to see her own daughter in California. Ben, because how could I not? This year, Hannah had asked me to invite Manuel, her assistant, who’d recently broken up with his boyfriend and had nowhere else to go.
Hopefully, the places where Dylan’s father and Fairchild grandparents used to be wouldn’t be too obvious.
As I went downstairs to check on dinner, my phone chimed.
Brad.
Lillie, I was thinking we should all have Christmas dinner together. It would be a great way for Dylan to ease into this new dynamic and understand that we’re all still family.
I ignored the text—did he really think I would have dinner at his house with his pregnant new wife, his new daughter and our son? He probably did. He was that obtuse. A moment later, this was confirmed by another text. Especially since he is going to be a brother soon.
Translation: We have something you never will.
Not for the first time, I wondered if Brad ever thought of our daughter. I remembered him sobbing in the hospital, holding her. Holding me. He slept in the hospital bed with me that night. Where had that guy gone?
Another text from my ex. BTW, we are waiting till the delivery to find out the gender. Thought you would be interested bc you are a midwife and my wife goes to your practice.
Now he was just rubbing it in.
I might need another skunk.
* * *