Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [129]
My mother shakes her head and says, “Every marriage is different. Every situation is different.”
It occurs to me that that’s what I’ve been telling her for years, and yet here she is finally agreeing with me now that her theory has been proven correct. I quit my job, prioritized my husband and family, and ended up in her shoes, just as she predicted.
“Tessa, honey,” my dad says after the waiter refills our wineglasses and scurries discreetly away, likely sensing that something is amiss at our table. “I’m not proud of what I did . . .”
“Well, that’s comforting,” my mother scoffs under her breath.
He exhales, appropriately shamed, and tries again. “Okay. That’s an understatement . . . I’ll always regret behaving the way I did . . . Behaving so ... dishonorably . . .”
As far as I know, this is the first he’s ever admitted any wrongdoing and, as such, it feels like a shocking admission. It must to my mother, as well, because now she looks like she might cry.
He continues, more gingerly, “I wish I had handled things differently . . . I really do. Things weren’t going well with your mother and me — I think she’d agree with that.” He glances her way and then continues, “But I looked for solutions in all the wrong places. I was a fool.”
“Oh, David,” my mother says under her breath, her eyes welling.
“It’s true. I was stupid,” he says. “And Nick is stupid, too.”
My mother gives him a knowing look as it suddenly dawns on me that their intervention was not only planned, but possibly rehearsed. Then she says, “Although, obviously . . . we don’t know what was in Nick’s head . . . or why he did what he did.”
“Right. Right,” my dad says. “But what I’m trying to say ... is that I think your mother and I —”
“We made a lot of mistakes,” she interjects as he nods.
I feel a wave of nostalgia, remembering our dinner conversations growing up, how much the two used to interrupt each other, more when they were getting along and happy than when their relationship was stormy, marked by silent gridlocks and standoffs. “I was depressed and frustrated and hard to live with. And he,” she says, pointing at my father and nearly smiling, “was a cheating son of a bitch.”
My dad raises his brows and says, “Gee. Thanks, Barb.”
“Well, you were,” she says, releasing a high, nervous laugh.
“I know,” he says. “And I’m sorry.”
“Duly noted,” she says — which is as close as she has ever come to forgiving him.
I look from one parent to the other, unsure if I feel better or worse, but thoroughly perplexed as to their overarching point. Are they implying that I somehow contributed to this mess? That Nick had an affair because he’s not happy? That marriage is more about how you manage a catastrophe than commitment and trust? Or are they simply caught up in their own bizarre feel-good moment?
My father must sense my confusion because he says, “Look, Tess. Your mother and I are just trying to impart some of the wisdom we collected the hard way. We’re just trying to tell you that sometimes it’s not about the affair —”
“But you married Diane,” I say, avoiding eye contact with my mother.
He waves this off as if his current wife is utterly beside the point. “Only because your mom left me . . .”
Clearly liking this version of their history, she smiles — a warm, real smile, allowing him to continue.
“Sweetie, here’s what we’re trying to say,” my father says. “Marriages are funny, complicated, mysterious things . . . and they go through cycles. Ups and downs, like anything else . . . And they shouldn’t really be defined by one act, albeit a terrible one.”
“Multiple acts, perhaps,” my mother says, unable to resist the Softball. “But not one, singular mistake.”
My father raises his palms in the air as if to say he has no defense, and then continues her train of thought. “That said, you don’t have to be okay with his transgression. You don’t have to forgive Nick,” my dad says. “Or trust