Mom had a gift for twisting a blade you didn’t know she carried. There was always the afterburn, as Hannah called it. “You look pretty,” she might say to one of us. “What a nice change.” Or, if she and Dad were going out, “Well, well, well. You don’t smell like fish, Pedro. I didn’t know it was possible.”
Dinners were grim and fast: eat what was provided, clean up, go do your homework. When Hannah turned nine, Mom deemed her old enough to take care of me and started full-time at the DA’s office. That was fine with me. That was better, in fact, because the minute Mom came home, the tension began. She’d always comment on what we hadn’t done—if I had swept the floor, she’d ask why I hadn’t emptied the trash. If Hannah had started dinner, she’d ask why the breakfast dishes were still in the sink. Then Dad would come home with HandsomeBoy, his faithful mutt who went out on the Goody Chapman with him. Mom would grimace and tell Dad to shower even though that was exactly what he did every single day.
Dad was a classic Cape Codder with a New England work ethic and a hatred for meaningless small talk. He was brief with his rare praise. “Good job” was about as eloquent as he got, and usually to Hannah, who had more proof of her worthiness—straight As, science fair awards, honors math.
But I never doubted his love for me. It was as constant as air. Mom . . . not so much. We were always her afterthoughts. Career, community, friends, then daughters. I don’t think her marriage even made the list.
They fought constantly through body language and icy silences, irritable sighs and sharply closed cabinets. Weeks could pass without them speaking to each other. When they did hiss at each other, Hannah and I would turn on the radio or take out a game and huddle together between our beds, the familiar anxiety and slight fear when one of them raised their voice or their footsteps were too heavy. There was never any violence . . . just simmering tension, hanging over my sister and me like polluted fog.
It wasn’t a surprise when they told us they were getting a divorce.
I was eight, Hannah twelve. We sat at the kitchen table after school, and Mom delivered the news in one sentence: “Your father and I are finally getting a divorce.” Hannah and I exchanged a look of concern laced with relief. “It’ll be fine,” Mom said. “You’ll adjust. Now go do your homework.” Thus was the end of our heart-to-heart.
We both assumed Mom would stay here with us, even though this house had been Dad’s and our grandparents’ before that. Hannah speculated that Dad would buy a house nearby, and things would go on more or less unchanged. That night, in our shared room, we whispered about it. It would be better, we decided. Mom wouldn’t be so irritated all the time, and Dad would probably buy us the puppy we’d been campaigning for, since HandsomeBoy was his.
“I know I should feel bad,” Hannah said, “but I don’t. Anything will be better than all this fuming. They don’t even love each other. I bet they never did.” I believed her . . . she was older and knew about relationships, having gone to the sixth-grade dance the week before.
I had a lump in my throat even with her reassuring words. I loved my father, and the specter of not seeing him every day . . . of missing the occasional bedtime talks, taking me through the woods to Newcomb Hollow Beach, scooping me up in his arms when the waves were rough, teaching me to fish. Who would bandage my scraped knees with such gruff tenderness?
I loved Mom, too, and admired her in that youthful way kids do. She was beautiful and respected, and while her affection was rare, it could make a person feel special. Kids love their mothers until they’re taught not to, and mine wasn’t exactly bad . . . she was just uninterested.
I said a prayer that Dad would move into the next house down the pond from us so I could still see him every day.
Therefore it was quite a shock when our parents informed us we could choose which parent we lived with. Oh, and also, Mom was moving in with her lover. Who was a woman.
No kid could grow up on Cape Cod and not understand what gay meant—Provincetown was one of the first places on the East Coast where being out was not only safe but celebrated, and it had been that way since long before Hannah and I were born. We grew up seeing gay couples, drag queens, trans people in everyday life. Provincetown was the brightest, most cheerful place in the world, rich with galleries and fabulous food, performers, gardens, art, music, parades. Three of my classmates had same-sex parents, and Filipe, my oldest cousin on Dad’s side, was also known as Anna Conda, singing at the Crown & Anchor each weekend in the summer （a fact that won me points among my peers）。