“Next time, call me on my cellphone if it would make you feel any better,” my mother replied. “I know that lonesome feeling. I can still get lonesome when your father is in the house. He’ll lock himself in his bedroom and talk on his cellphone for hours.”
“I bet I hadn’t cried since the day Rachel’s and my divorce was final over a decade ago,” I told her.
“What did Helen cook?” I asked her to change the subject to lighter fare.
“Helen cooked meatloaf and macaroni and cheese,” my mother replied. “It was a good supper. Your father is bringing you a big plate of food.”
Dad had told my mother that usually only men with mental illness problems cry like that and I scoffed when my mother told me what he said. I can’t ever remember my father crying, though. He was stone-faced even at his own mother’s funeral.
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