To the Man Who Left Five Minutes into Our First Family Date

Thank you, Eric and I say from the backseat of Mom’s beaten, brown Corolla as she passes back McDonald’s cones—the sugary swirl, a balm letting us know, even though we never got the movie promised, she’s not mad at us. We did nothing wrong, nothing to make you bolt before we knew your name, could remember more than a dirty blonde buzz-cut and the thick, black glasses Mom made fun of in the parking lot after you left—the Navy’s way to keep the ladies at bay. Birth control, she called them.

Thank you for admitting at once you didn’t want a ready-made family, couldn’t handle a mom and two kids, for never adding your name to the list—Dad, Jeff, Matt, Ed—of those who broke her pretending that they could/did. Everything ending not with ice-creams but her locked away, cracked voice behind a bedroom door—that first time for weeks.

Thank you, Eric and I say from the backseat as we hand Mom back empty napkins before the drive home. She apologizes again, pulls out into traffic, wants to make sure we understand: We’re a package deal. It’s his loss. Forget him. And for that moment just the three of us felt like something whole, felt like enough. Thank you.