Dad gave me a slight push toward the dining room. The smell of burnt cheese filled the air and I could hear the sound of crashing and banging coming from the kitchen.
Well, here goes nothin’.
“Hi, Mom,” I called out, keeping a distance as she moved around like a whirling dervish. The kitchen was a mess. My mother liked to play like she was a good cook. It was another way she lied to herself that she was a decent person.
“You’re late. Go sit down. The food is barely edible, thanks to you.” Mom scowled at me and shooed me into the dining room.
I joined my dad, who was already seated, drinking a large whisky. He lifted the bottle. “Want some? You’ll probably need it.”
“Absolutely.” I held out my glass. My dad poured the whiskey to the brim. “She’s in fine form tonight.”
Dad took a long drink, downing half the contents of his glass. “When isn’t she in fine form? She’s been pissing and moaning about one thing after another today. I’m too old to listen to that crap.” And here we go. The script was always the same. Dad would bitch about my mom. Mom would bitch about my dad. Then they’d bitch at each other. Then they’d bitch at me. Then I’d go home.
Wash, rinse, and repeat.
Mom came out carrying a smoking glass dish. She plopped it in the center of the table, the charred remains of our dinner giving off a nauseating smell.
“I don’t want to hear either of you complaining about dinner. It wouldn’t have burned if someone would have shown up on time.” Mom looked pointed at me as she sat down, snatching the whisky bottle from Dad’s hands and moving it out of his reach. “You shouldn’t be drinking this stuff, Tom. You have a bad liver.”
“I’m hoping it will off me sooner rather than later,” he muttered, drinking the rest of the whisky in his glass before Mom could take it from him.
I swallowed my sigh and scooped burnt pasta on my plate. When I was a kid I usually had to make my own dinner. Mom would either be out or had taken off in one of her predictable huffs. So, this whole cooking for the family thing was new.
Mom folded her hands in front of her and glared at me. “We need to say grace before we eat.”
“Since when?” I asked with a disbelieving snort.
“Since your mom decided to find Jesus,” Dad mocked, taking the spoon from my hand, and scooping his own lump of what Mom was passing for food.
“God damn it, Tom. Why can’t you be supportive just once? The church is important to me. I just want to share something that means a lot to me with the people I love. So put that spoon down and fold your hands and pray with me!” she shrieked.
Dad and I shared a look but ultimately did as we were asked. It was easier that way.
I realized I had spent most of my life going the easy route. Avoiding messy complications to not risk my heart. Holding my tongue when Mac would make an insensitive comment. Not telling Robert that he hurt me by not opening up.
My friends thought I was a no-nonsense woman who spoke her mind. They had no idea how much I kept to myself to not put myself out there for people to see the real me. It was hard for me to really open up. To expose the sensitive underbelly that I kept hidden from the world.
I had the two people sitting across from me to thank for that.
Dinner passed as expected with traded barbs and hurled insults. And when they exhausted their verbal jousting match, Mom and Dad turned their attention to me.
“You’ve lost weight. Are you sick?” Mom asked, making a face as she attempted to swallow the lasagna.
“Not that I’m aware of,” I quipped.
“How’s the house? Have you fixed the stairs yet? You’ll break your neck if you don’t keep that place fixed up,” Dad warned.
“It’s been fixed for three months now, Dad.” I put my fork down. I couldn’t force myself to eat another bite.
“That’s good. I was worried about that,” he grumbled. If he was so worried, why didn’t he offer to fix it himself? Oh, that’s right, he just liked to complain about what I wasn’t doing instead.
Mom steepled her hands beneath her chin. “I was thinking the other day, that you and Mac were due to get married this month.”
Ouch. Okay, that hurt. Mom was going straight for the jugular tonight.
“And your point?” I asked sharply.
“Skylar, don’t backtalk to your mother,” Dad snapped. He’d bash my mother all day long, but the second I stood up for myself, he liked to run to her rescue.
Mom reached out and covered his hand with hers in a mimic of solidarity. This was the part where they’d team up to tear me down.
“I think it’s a shame the two of you couldn’t work it out, is all I’m saying,” she went on.
“He was an ass—”
“Language, Skylar,” Dad warned.
“Fine, he was a jerk. He took all my money and spent it on porn. And not just any porn, but teenage girls taking their clothes off. Is that the kind of guy you wanted to welcome into the family?” I threw back at her.
Mom pressed her lips into a thin line. “You’re so judgmental, Skylar. You’ll end up alone at this rate, particularly if you don’t learn how to forgive.”
My mouth gaped open. I looked from her to my dad.
“Did you hear anything I said? Are you for real?”
Dad frowned. “Your mom has forgiven me for a lot of things
