I shift uncomfortably on the hard stool. Why did I agree to do this? Nothing is going to change. And I’ve never been a fan of coffee anyways. I had this Saturday all planned out: start a load of laundry, load and run the dishwasher, drop the kids off with Mom, grab groceries, vacuum the floors, and take a long and well-deserved nap. Naps are like unicorns—you know you’ll never encounter one, but the thought of it gives you joy and hope for the future. Instead, my day started with Sara on her phone throughout breakfast, blinking at the tiny screen with eyes hidden behind bangs that she refuses to keep out of her face. Meanwhile, Andrew threw Cheerios at the dog (which was better than yesterday when he decided to run his sticky fingers through his freshly combed hair), and Christina complained because “today was a Fruit Loops day,” whatever that means. She’s always been a tad theatrical. I scribbled the sacred cereal onto my already too-long grocery list and told Andrew to stop feeding the dog (for the fifth time since he began eating) when my phone buzzed with a neon message that read, “I need to talk to you in person.”
As of now, the name of the sender is “Jake.” Two years ago, it was “Satan,” last year it was “Voldemort,” and 6 months ago it was “Darth Vader.” But Sara finally learned the password to my phone, and Christina is no longer behind in her 3rd grade reading curriculum. The last thing they need to see is Mommy’s bad side. And Jake can earn a bad name with his kids without my help. My beautiful Saturday morning then rounded out with the Tetris-like stacking of four more dirty dishes into the sink. I would have loaded the dishwasher, but that was still filled with clean dishes. (If you don’t know what that sounds like, it sounds something like, “Sara Nicole! Didn’t I tell you to unload these dishes last night?” and looks like an 11-year-old girl shrugging her shoulders and rolling her eyes while I slam the dishwasher door shut). After the saga of “Preteen vs. Mom,” I debuted my new hit album entitled “No, You Cannot Wear Two Different Shoes” with my favorite song “Because I Said So,” and my performance was so moving that my 4-year-old, Andrew, threw himself onto the floor and started screaming. (At that point, Christina decided to help me out by my poking her head in and snarking, “Ugh, can’t we just leave him on some nice lady’s doorstep?” And I promptly delivered her “the look.”)
Through some strength that certainly was not my own, we all managed to find ourselves in the van and buckled up. When we pulled into my mother’s driveway, Sara opened the door and jumped out before I came to a complete stop. “Sara Nicole, why would you even unbuckle when the vehicle is still moving?!” And while I was helping Andrew unbuckle, I saw Christina taking down her hair. “Christina! Why would you ask me to French braid your hair if you were just going to take it down?!” To which she retorted,
“I needed it to curl. Duh, Mom.”
My mother smiled at me from her doorstep with kind eyes and hollered, “Not your circus!” to which I hollered back, “Not my monkeys!”
And now I’m here, clutching a coffee that I’m not going to drink, repeatedly looking from my watch to my phone to the door of the café. I’m trying not to admonish myself for looking so… run down. My unwashed hair is pulled back, there’s no makeup covering the deep bags of fatigue under my eyes, and it wouldn’t surprise me if I had a random stain somewhere on my clothes from whatever toxic substance my kids got into. I can only hope that when Jake arrives he looks as bad as I do. I spin the coffee cup in my hands and admire the warmth.
I’m startled out of my thoughts by the scratching of another stool on the floor in front of me. I look up and see a brunette woman fluffing her hair and setting her leather clutch on the table in front of her. Her acrylic nails tap the table nervously as she purses her glossy lips, and she mumbles, “Sorry I’m late, I couldn’t find a good parking spot.“
I realize who she is. The voice I just heard was the voice I’d heard in the background of my phone calls with Jake. The same calls when my hand gripped the phone like a vise, and my smile was plastered onto my face because my three children would be looking up at me with worried eyes because their father was forty-five minutes late to pick them up. The same calls where I heard her laughter ring out above his voice as he assured me,
“Of course I’m on my way. I just got caught in traffic; you know how Arlington is on a Friday night…” The voice I heard chirp her goodbyes to my children the last time they crawled out of my ex-husband’s car after their visitation three weeks ago.
I keep opening my mouth to speak then closing it. Because what can I say? “Hi, you must be the woman who’s trying to replace me. Nice to meet you” sounds too aggressive and probably a tad un-Christian. She saves me the trouble and clears her throat,
“You must be Jessica. I’m Diane. I thought maybe it was time for us to meet.” She reaches out her perfectly moisturized, manicured hand to me as an invitation. I’m too stunned to move, so instead, I blurt out,
“Where’s Jake? He texted me.”
Her green eyes (accentuated with perfectly blended eyeshadow) flicker in embarrassment, and she dips her head and retracts her outstretched hand. I really should have cleaned myself up before coming here, I scold myself.
“Um, I actually sent that text. I didn’t think you’d come if you knew it was me—"
I push my coffee cup forward and reach for my phone to start texting Jake, and Diane senses my frustration and starts to speak faster. “I just thought that since I was spending so much time with Jake and getting to know your kids—” I pound out the message on my phone, “What the crap is your problem?! I can’t believe you would do this…” And Diane’s voice cracks as she finishes with,
“I just wanted you to feel respected!”
That stops me. My thumb hovers over the send button, and I look up to meet her gaze. I swallow hard and mechanically reply,
“Respected while you sneak around with my ex-husband, or respected while you encroach on my kids' lives?” Diane flinches as if she had just been slapped, and the weight of my words hang in the air like smog. I could feel a Bible verse floating back to me, threatening to choke me. “Love keeps no record of wrongs.” I reach up with both hands and start massaging my temples, placing my elbows on the cold tabletop.
I look back up at her, and I see tears pooling in her eyes, threatening to spill over. The shame probably reads on my now red face, so I backpedal. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You’re trying to be nice…” And then I throw my hands up and motion between us, “… but this isn’t the easiest situation for me.”
And it isn’t. I’m the one who takes the kids to church every Sunday, and I’m the one who sits in the same pew with an empty space where Jake once sat next to me. I’m the one who answered the questions of the ladies who furrowed their eyebrows and leaned in and whispered, “Oh, sweetie, did he cheat on you?” I’m the one who keeps everything in order while Jake feeds the kids pizza and soda and lets them stay up late. I’m the one who no longer fits in with our married church friends.
And I’m the one who doesn’t have the luxury of finding someone new. Diane, despite my behavior, smiles and shakily suggests, “Maybe we can figure out where to go from here together.” I look to the ceiling for help that apparently isn’t going to come. Jesus, if you came back right now or strike me down. Literally anything to put me out of my misery... But I don’t want to fight anymore, and I could be dealing with a woman who hates my guts or pretends I don’t exist.
Pick your battles, Jessica.
So I ask her, “Can you at least make sure Jake feeds them something without grease?”
Diane chuckles, and I smile. I can at least try.
