I had bought every card and gift for our son and his parents, signing them from both of us. I was the one who knew the birthdays and anniversaries. We had a great relationship with Vanessa and Charles because of me, not him. I was the one who stayed in close touch, giving them updates on Dylan, inviting them to every significant event in his life from his baptism to football games. I helped at the family business; Brad did not. If his mother called his cell, their conversation would last ten minutes. If she called me, we’d talk for an hour. Back in the olden days, that was.
I hated him, and I hated myself for having loved him. He was so pretentious, so smug, so cruel in his new namaste philosophy . . . and yet, I fantasized about him begging me for forgiveness, for another chance, he’d spend the rest of his life proving that he’d made a terrible mistake. I wanted to stay married. I hated my husband, but I wanted my family intact.
Dylan and I drove to Hyannis together to get all the things he’d need for his dorm room, and I held it together as he picked out his new comforter, extra-long sheets, towels, bathrobe, shower caddy. On the way home, he said, “I’ll really miss you, Mom,” and it was all I could do not to sob. Instead, I covered his hand with mine and said, “I’ll miss you, too, honey. But this will be so much fun for you. It’s a great adventure, going so far away, and I’m really proud that you’re brave enough to do it. And of course, I’ll visit.”
Mothers lie. All I really wanted was for him to have a serious change of heart, take my father up on his offer to teach him how to be a scallop fisherman, buy the Goody Chapman back from Ben Hallowell and make it a Silva family boat once again. Or just crew for Ben. Or decide he wanted to be a nurse at Hyannis Hospital and marry Lydia, and in a few years, I’d sell them our house at a crazy low price, move into the studio and give them their privacy and work part-time when they had kids and needed me there to help. Lydia, who already loved me, would say how perfect it was to have me so close.
But he and Lydia broke up. Dylan said it was mutual, that it didn’t make sense to have a long-distance relationship with someone he wouldn’t see until Christmas.
Two weeks before our son left for college, Brad and I had our first appointment with a mediator. She was a calm, middle-aged woman with short gray hair, and she exuded intelligence. She waited for us to settle in （on opposite sides of the table, fittingly）。
“I’m Elaine,” she said, opening a notebook. “The first thing I ask my clients is, are you absolutely sure there’s no chance of reconciliation?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” I said.
Brad put on his therapist sympathy face. “I’m sorry, Lillie. Too much damage has been done. It’s been a dead marriage for years.”
The urge to spit acid, like a velociraptor, was strong. “I have written proof that this is not true, Brad. But whatever. Have your midlife crisis with your Barbie doll.”
“There it is. Your temper, for one. Your lack of true interest in my personal growth. You don’t notice me anymore. I can’t remember the last time you really saw me. You certainly don’t care about my health, cooking with all that butter.”
“So this is grounds for divorce? Too much butter?”
“You think you’re a saint. So earth mother, delivering babies, caring for pregnant women. Admit it. You hate men.”
“I do not hate men!” I screeched. “I only hate you.”
“Okay,” Elaine intervened. “I’m not a therapist, but I’d say he’s firm in his decision to become divorced, Lillie. It only takes one partner to make that happen. So let’s do what you originally said you wanted to—talk about dividing your assets.”
“Do I get more since he lied and cheated and broke his vows?” I couldn’t help asking.
“Interesting,” he said. “You also broke yours. What about to love, honor and cherish?”
“I did that! When haven’t I done that?”
“See, you’re not even listening, even now. I just told you.”
“So I should’ve kissed your ass more? Told you how brilliant you are, how strong and handsome and funny?”
“Yes,” he said, almost sounding surprised. “Of course!”
“And when did you do that for me?”
He shook his head. “You didn’t create space for me to say those things. You were too occupied elsewhere.”
“So the fact that you didn’t compliment and appreciate me is . . . my fault? Listen to yourself! You cheated on me! You had an affair! I am the injured party here!” I wiped my eyes with a fast slash of my hand, hating the fact that I was crying.