The Cynic

It's a cloudless Saturday afternoon, perfect for sitting under a red patio umbrella and sipping our milk teas. We talk of quarter-life crises and engagement frenzy, and she asks me if I've read Sheryl Sandberg's post from earlier in the week.

I did. I never read Lean In, but something about that post struck a tender part of me, like a muscle you never knew you had until it makes its soreness known. When I saw the photograph of Sheryl Sandberg and David Goldberg at the end of that aching post, that's when I realized what has changed. That when I let someone into my fortress of knives and ice that night in May, I willingly invited the possibility of being gutted from the inside out.

I tell my mother later in the car about how S and I discussed Sheryl Sandberg. It's been six years since S and I first met, and the conversation today was more solemn than it has ever been. We'd spoken of life and death, of how much we've changed in the past six years, and how much more things will change from here. I tell my mother about S's remark, that she could barely imagine the devastation if her boyfriend of almost three years passed away just as suddenly.

My mother replies mildly, "Oh yes, she's really dependent on him."

Her words startle me. "No," I say slowly. "I don't think that's what she meant."

"But she relies on him a lot," my mother says, her eyes on the road. "She lives at his place. He's the breadwinner between the two of them."

Something finally snaps in me. "Jesus, Mom. Why are you so cynical? Maybe she just loves him!"

There's a pause, as if my outburst has surprised her, before she responds with a short dry laugh. "Love? You guys are still young."

The car pulls up into the driveway, and we don't speak of this again.

Perhaps it is just my imagination, but for the rest of that day, my mother is quieter than usual. We hike through the trails in the old mercury mines in the hills behind our house. We stay near each other as the sunset turns the sky from blue to gold to pink, but neither of us speak a word.