“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.