Best Kept Secret Read Online Free PDF Page B

in the living room with Martin while she whirled around like a madwoman between the dining room and kitchen. The conversation over the dinner table began with her dramatic lamentation: “I can’t believe I did this whole meal all by myself! I swear I’ll have to hire help next year.” I had enough social graces to keep my mouth shut, though Martin and I laughed about it in the car on the way home.
    Standing there in our apartment a couple of weeks later, Martin looked uncomfortable, clutching the e-mail. “No, no thank-you note,” he said. “Actually, she made a list of what you ate. With calorie count.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly up and down beneath the thin skin of his neck.
    My mouth dropped open. “Are you kidding me?”
    He took a step toward me. “Now, don’t get upset . . .”
    “Unbelievable.” I threw my book to the floor with a loud
thump.
Martin stopped in his tracks. “You’re going to
defend
her?”
    “She read an article, honey,” he began. “With a list of the calories people typically consume . . .”
    “Stop.” I held up my hand, just in case he was tempted to believe I wasn’t serious. “Just stop it right there.” Pursing my lips together, I pushed a couple of breaths out through my nose. “Why are you telling me this? Maybe
you’re
concerned about my weight?” I was not a gym bunny. I had a belly. When not safely ensconced in the proper combination of wire and spandex, my breasts bordered on cartoonish.
    “No,” he sighed. “You know I love your body. She just asked me to tell you about it. I really think she meant well. She says she’s concerned about your health.”
    I snorted at this. “Please. My health is just fine. You’re the one with the high blood pressure. Did she make a list for the food
you
ate?”
    “No, but—” he attempted, but I cut him off.
    “You know what? She can go fuck herself. You both can.”
    It was our first official fight. The next day, I found the e-mail in the recycle bin and experienced great pleasure in pushing it through the paper shredder at work. Martin brought home flowers that night and apologized profusely for his misstep.
    “It’s just the way she is,” he said. “Maybe you could talk with her. Tell her how you feel.”
    “I’d feel a little strange doing that,” I said. “Couldn’t you do it?”
    “And say what?”
    “That her e-mail was totally offensive. That she hurt my feelings.”
    He sighed. “She won’t get it. She’s a very factual person.”
    “What would you do if it was you? If she hurt your feelings like this?”
    “I don’t let her hurt my feelings. And even if she did, whining about it is not who she raised me to be. I told you she’s old-fashioned. She’s also a very strong woman. It’s not worth the energy trying to get her to change. She won’t.”
    I forgave him, of course.
Nobody is perfect,
I reasoned.
He just made an error in judgment. Mother-child relationships are complicated.
Since my relationship with my own mother was fairly distant, I attempted to find it sweet that Martin shared a close relationship with his. I understood it, to an extent. Martin was an only child. After his father’s death, Martin and Alice became partners in life just as much as they were mother and son. I rationalized her blunt insertion in our relationship as a result of her heritage. Germanic women just said what they thought—no sugar-coating necessary. That was just who she was. Over time, though, this logic wore thin. Martin didn’t see it, calling me paranoid. I called him a mama’s boy and an idiot. Yes indeed, it does take two people to end a marriage. I’m not so delusional asto think I played no part in our downfall. However, I am still child enough to proclaim that my husband is the one who started it.
    We lived together about a year before I found out I was pregnant. Not a minute after I stepped out of our bathroom with the positive test in hand, he smiled and said, “Marry