But she’s not here, so she doesn’t know about Drew. She’ll never meet him or hear about our meet-cute or our many awkward almost-kisses or our very non-awkward real kisses (although, let’s be real, I would edit that part when talking to my mom). In fact, she’ll never even see me as an adult woman, one who grew up and fell in love, and that stings way more than Drew storming out of here this morning.
Maybe holding those VHS tapes won’t bring her back, but this morning, I need something that will help me feel a tiny bit closer to her.
I leave Chloe on the couch with a mug of coffee and one of her Spicy Cinnamon Brownies and go up to the attic. It’s one of those perfect movie attics, with the ladder that pulls down. Of course, the attic itself isn’t filled with anything magical like any good ’90s children’s movie would be; instead, it’s mostly filled with Uncle Don’s action-figure collection (all still in their original packaging, obviously). But, as I climb up, I can’t help feeling like something magical could happen up here, like I could find these VHS tapes and suddenly, miraculously, things would get better.
It turns out Uncle Don has been storing way more stuff up here than I thought (like, does he need these Star Trek commemorative dinner plates that I can guarantee we’re never going to eat off of?), and it’s hard to know where the tapes are. In the faint light coming through the tiny, fogged-up window, I brush dust off boxes and try to read what they say.
My mom was never one for organization or tidiness, so many of the boxes are labeled “stuff” or “various knickknacks.” Uncle Don’s, in contrast, have labels like “Star Wars magazines 2000–2016.” I paw through a few boxes, coming across things I’ll want to properly pore over later, but right now I’m on a mission.
I open a box labeled “things from bedroom” (helpful!) and am greeted with a tiny lamb-printed onesie that must’ve belonged to baby me. There’s a pair of baby shoes, a hairbrush, and then a stack of letters.
These must be love letters between my mom and dad; I just know it. The way mom talked about their relationship, it was epic and poetic and although I never knew my dad, I somehow know he was the type of guy to write a love letter. This is the framing device of a great romantic drama—a girl finds her parents’ old love letters, then we flash back to their relationship. Sort of like The Notebook, but not as cheesy.
I’m running through plot points in my head as I unfold the first letter on the stack and start reading. These letters are addressed to my mom, but as I glance at the name on the return address, they aren’t from my dad. They’re from someone named Edwin Smith.
These must’ve been from before she met my dad. I pick up the first letter off the pile and start reading.
This will be the last contact I have with you. I say this knowing full well that it will break your heart, but I have decided not to leave Marie. She found out about us, and she was upset, but we’ve decided to work on our marriage—or at least attempt to. This means that I have to stop meeting with you, calling you, everything. As much as that hurts, it’s the only way.
Please don’t call me, at work or at home, as I won’t be able to answer. You know I’ll always love you. I’ve mailed you all of our correspondence, because I can’t have it in my home but I can’t bear to throw it away.
Edwin
And then, I see the date written at the top of the letter.
These are from the year before she died.
Chapter Twenty-one
I read through the rest of the letters on the stack, even though I’m nauseated and almost unable to breathe. I never knew my mom was dating someone before she died—let alone a married man.
“Knock, knock,” Chloe says, poking her head into the attic. “I’ve watched an entire episode of Dr. Oz since you went up here, and now I know way more than I wanted to about superfoods and— oh, my God, are you crying?”
She pulls herself into the attic and runs over to me, floorboards creaking under her feet.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, kneeling beside me. “Are you thinking about Drew again? Because I promise he’s going to come back here any minute, sad and sorry and ready to bang the living daylights out of you.”
I shake my head and wave the letter I’m holding. “My mom was having an affair with a married guy. Right before she died.”
Chloe shakes her head. “That . . . doesn’t sound like your mom.”
“It’s right here, Chlo, in these letters. It was some guy named Edwin, and he didn’t leave his wife, and . . .” I trail off, not even sure what else there is to say. I look at Chloe. “I thought she believed in true love, like her perfect relationship with my dad. And now I know that not only had she totally moved on from him, but she was having an affair!”
I watch Chloe read the last letter, her lips moving slightly and her eyes widening in shock. She looks up at me and exhales. “This is . . . a lot.”
“I know.”
She reaches out and strokes my arm. “I’m sorry, hon.”
“There is no romantic comedy where this happens. Like, I can’t name a single rom-com that begins or ends with a person carrying on an affair with a married man, then getting her heart smashed to smithereens.”
“Maybe a Mike Nichols movie,” Chloe says, raising a shoulder, but when I glare at her she says, “Okay, okay, you’re right. This isn’t funny.”
“It’s really, really not.”
Chloe lowers herself from her crouching position until she’s sitting beside me on the dusty attic floor. “So this sucks. There’s no way around that.”
I nod and wipe my nose on my sleeve again. Chloe cringes.
“But all it really means is that you found out your mom was a human being. It’s shitty, but we all have to learn that at some point. For me, it was when my mom ran off to Ann Arbor to meet her online boyfriend when we were in elementary school. And then it happened again when I had to put my dad in a memory-care facility because he wandered out of the house and was missing for an entire hour.”
I nod, chastened, because I tend to forget how hard and lonely Chloe’s life has been.
“And listen,” she continues. “I’m not saying my problems are bigger than yours, because sure, my mom’s still alive out there somewhere. But at least your mom didn’t totally suck when she was alive. I get that you want to have this perfect image of your mom in your mind, to remember her as this angel who was pining away for your father and believing hopelessly in true love, but no one’s flawless. All this means is that your mom was like any of us—kind of a fucked-up person who made bad decisions sometimes. That doesn’t mean she loved you any less.”
I nod. “You’re right. You’re totally right.”
She leans into me and wraps me into a side hug, putting her head on my shoulder. “Listen, there are some brownies down there with your name on them, and I’m pretty sure there’s an entire hour of Family Feud coming up. Instead of a rom-com, do you wanna let Steve Harvey cure your ills?”
I nod again. “Yeah. Okay.”
Chloe smiles at me, concern still written on her face. “I’ll go slice you off a brownie and pour you a glass of milk while you clean up, okay?”