Not the dutiful kind. The hungry kind. I agreed to meet them both—my mother and Richard—at a diner on the edge of town. She wanted me to “see that he’s not a monster.” I wanted to see if the monster had simply learned to wear a better mask.
My mother chose my father—sort of. She ended things with Richard again, this time for good (or so she says). But she also started individual therapy. She admitted that the triangle wasn’t about Richard at all. It was about a woman who married at twenty-two, became a mother at twenty-four, and never learned how to want things for herself.
And honesty, I’ve decided, is a different kind of love. Author’s Note: This story is a work of fiction. If you are navigating a real-life family situation involving infidelity, know that you are not alone. Consider speaking with a therapist or a trusted support group—some wounds heal better in the light.
