“Oh, honey,” my mom says, dropping her bag off her shoulder, letting it fall wherever it falls, paying no attention to the people who need to get around us. She holds me tightly, with both arms rubbing my back.
I feel no pressure to stop crying. I feel no need to explain myself. You don’t have to make yourself OK for a good mother; a good mother makes herself OK for you. And my mother has always been a good mother, a great mother.
When I am done, I pull away. I wipe my eyes. There are people passing us on the left and the right, businesswomen with briefcases, families with backpacks. Some of them stare. But I’m used to people staring at my mother and me. Even in the melting pot that is New York City, there are still many people who don’t expect a mother and daughter to look as we look.
“What is it, honey?” my mom asks.
“I don’t even know where to start,” I say.
She grabs my hand. “How about I forgo trying to prove to you that I understand the subway system and we hail a cab?”
I laugh and nod, drying the edges of my eyes.
By the time we are in the backseat of a stale taxi, clips of the morning news cycle repeating over and over on the console, I have gathered myself enough to breathe easily.
“So tell me,” she says. “What’s on your mind?”
Do I tell her what I know?
Do I tell her that the heartbreaking thing we’ve always believed—that my father died driving drunk—isn’t true? Am I going to exchange that transgression for another? That he was having an affair with a man when his life ended?
“David and I are officially getting divorced,” I say.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she says. “I know that had to be hard.”
I can’t burden her with what I suspect about Evelyn. I just can’t.
“And I miss Dad,” I say. “Do you miss Dad?”
“Oh, God,” she says. “Every day.”
“Was he a good husband?”
She seems caught off guard. “He was a great husband, yes,” she says. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just realized I don’t know very much about your relationship. What was he like? With you?”
She starts smiling, as if she’s trying to stop herself but simply can’t. “Oh, he was very romantic. He used to buy me chocolates every single year on the third of May.”
“I thought your anniversary was in September.”
“It was,” she says, laughing. “He just always spoiled me on the third of May for some reason. He said there weren’t enough official holidays to celebrate me. He said he needed to make one up just for me.”
“That’s really cute,” I say.
Our driver pulls out onto the highway.
“And he used to write the most beautiful love letters,” she says. “Really lovely. With poems in them about how pretty he thought I was, which was silly, because I was never pretty.”
“Of course you were,” I say.
“No,” she says, her voice matter-of-fact. “I wasn’t really. But boy, did he make me feel like I was Miss America.”
I laugh. “It sounds like a pretty passionate marriage,” I say.
My mom is quiet. Then she says, “No,” patting my hand. “I don’t know if I would say passionate. We just really liked each other. It was almost as if when I met him, I met this other side of myself. Someone who understood me and made me feel safe. It wasn’t passionate, really. It was never about ripping each other’s clothes off. We just knew we could be happy together. We knew we could raise a child. We also knew it wouldn’t be easy and that our parents wouldn’t like it. But in a lot of ways, that just brought us closer. Us against the world, sort of.
“I know it’s not popular to say. I know everybody’s looking for some sexy marriage nowadays. But I was really happy with your father. I really loved having someone look out for me, having someone to look out for. Having someone to share my days with. I always found him so fascinating. All of his opinions, his talent. We could have a conversation about almost anything. For hours on end. We used to stay up late, even when you were a toddler, just talking. He was my best friend.”
“Is that why you never remarried?”
My mom considers the question. “You know, it’s funny. Talking about passion. Since we lost your dad, I’ve found passion with men, from time to time. But I’d give it all back for just a few more days with him. For just one more late-night talk. Passion never mattered very much to me. But that type of intimacy that we had? That was what I cherished.”
Maybe one day I will tell her what I know.