“Can’t say I’m surprised,” she said, setting her cup down on the white marble island top. “I never liked Brad. So pretentious. Then again, that probably appealed to you, Liliana.”
Two seconds in, and already she was twisting the knife. It was her special gift. “He wants to do mediation.”
“That’s the best way,” she said. She paused. “Do not let him take the house or make you sell it. Don’t move out, either.”
Funny. She couldn’t wait to flee that house when I was a kid.
“That’s the most important thing to me,” I said. “And Dylan’s education.”
“Oh, you haven’t paid for that yet?” she asked.
Death by a thousand paper cuts. “No, Mom. But we have saved. Just not the whole amount yet.”
“Really? Hannah could probably help you. She makes a wonderful living.” Mom also made a wonderful living and had inherited a hefty sum when her father died years ago, but she had never offered to help with her only grandchild’s college expenses, and I couldn’t bring myself to ask.
“I’m fine, Mom. Financially. We don’t need help. We just . . . we’re just normal, Mom. We’ll pay it as it comes.”
She looked at her manicure, admiring the light pink polish. “If you say so. Anyway, mediation is the fastest, easiest and cheapest. Make sure you look at his pension and retirement funds. Is he hiding money?”
“No. I don’t think so. I handle the money.”
“Good.” She looked out the window at her garden. “Do you have anything of value? Jewelry, art, furniture?”
“Just the house, mostly. Some paintings I bought for his office.”
“Those count as gifts, then. Too bad, since you probably overpaid for them.” She looked at the ceiling. “I’m not a divorce attorney, but there are a few things that are just de rigueur. Get your own credit card and bank account, and make sure he’s not spending money you don’t know about,” she said. “Freeze your joint accounts and tell your financial adviser you’re divorcing, if you have one, that is. If Brad has anything that might be valuable, take a photo of it and get it appraised.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Baseball cards? That hideous old hutch in your den? I don’t know, Liliana. You’re the wife. Oh, and try to get money from him that’s not in the form of alimony. You won’t get taxed that way. Get him off your insurance plan.” She took a sip of coffee from her antique Limoges teacup—no “World’s Best Grandma” mug for her. “Good for you, Lillie! I’m proud of you.”
“Why? I don’t want this. I want to stay married.”
She snorted. “Why?”
“Because I was emotionally scarred when my own parents divorced. Because I value family as the foundation of—”
“Are we done? Do you want something to eat?” she said, glancing at her watch. “You’ll have to make it yourself. Oh, you and Dylan should come for dinner. Saturday night, seven o’clock. Hannah’s coming, too, of course.”
Yes. Hannah adored Mom and Beatrice. Actually, she adored Beatrice. No one adored my mom.
“We’re not available,” I said.
“Try to wear something nice for a change,” she said, ignoring me. “Now, I have work to do. Off you go.”
I’d already been dismissed. Mom walked out of the kitchen, heels tapping.
For the next three weeks, Brad played up the role of devoted father, friend and all-around great guy. If Dylan was around, he smiled, joked, cleaned up the kitchen, asked me if my left tire was still losing air. We ate dinner together. On Wednesdays, the day my dad came over to eat, Brad pretended he had a late client and hid in his office, since he’d always been slightly fearful of my father. Or he visited Melissa.
Meanwhile, Dylan and I spent a lot of time together, fishing or kayaking, walking in the woods. I tried to press these moments into my heart—the perfect stillness of Herring Pond as we stood up to our waists in it, the minnows swimming around us in the clear water. Kayaking into the waves at Coast Guard Beach, my son reaching out to steady my boat.
I tried not to tell him how much I’d miss him. Parenting is a 90 percent–10 percent relationship. Dylan was following his life’s trajectory, which was arcing upward and away, and all I could do was watch and wish him the best.
They don’t tell you how agonizing it is to have raised your child well. To have made yourself superfluous, while your child never stops being your beating heart.