6. WHAT DON’T YOU TRUST ABOUT THAT?

WHAT DON'T YOU TRUST ABOUT THAT?

M y eyes burned as they focused on the white linen curtains that framed the floor-to-ceiling windows of my bedroom. The aggressive Colorado sunshine–sunny for 300 days per year!–tinted them a pretty golden-white that energized the room, even at five a.m. Pigeons cooed outside and spackled my driveway with their trash bird scat. Did I get any sleep at all? I'd been up half the night grieving my marriage in between thinking about Andras, going over our conversation the day before in my head, and dreaming about him. I'd had so many vivid dreams of us naked, entangled in each other, that I kept waking confused that he wasn't actually there. I reached for my phone to check the time, yep, five a.m. and saw an email from the PTA.

"Ugh," Timestamp, three a.m. "Seriously?" I said, groaning. "Are you doing meth, Bethany?" I mumbled into the phone screen before begrudgingly scanning the email.

"Hello, parents! We love our community here, and who is responsible for this warm and wonderful community? Our teachers, of course! We'd love to show them just how much we appreciate them, so choose a gift! Thanks so much!"

The next email was a confirmation for the couple's therapy appointment I'd made with a woman my personal therapist had recommended. I added it to the digital family calendar, Steven's work calendar, and our acrylic wall calendar in the kitchen. Steven would be back soon, then two days later, we'd have the appointment, and hopefully, hopefully, we'd get things figured out, whatever that might look like. Maybe I'd magically get the strength to leave; maybe he'd magically see that he was hurting me and stop. Maybe he'd just disappear and save me the heartache of asking him to pack his shit up and go. I was a coward and fuck if I didn't know it.

I stuffed the phone under a pillow and groaned into the white sheets, then rolled to my back and stretched, feeling the soft cotton against my shoulders and legs, and took a slow, deep breath, concentrating on the sensation of my chest expanding towards the ceiling like I do every morning, or at least try to. I exhaled and noted the sensation of my lungs deflating towards my spine. I'd learned how to meditate from an app to help manage my stress and keep the depression away, too. And it worked, coupled with therapy, bullet journaling, mindfulness apps, yoga, time to myself after the kids go to bed, smoothies, screaming into the void, regular masturbation (if I can get the alone time), and as-needed anxiety medication. Deep breathing also made me significantly less stabby towards Steven. And while slow breaths wouldn't save my marriage, it seemed to hold me together while I ambled towards divorce or a mental collapse.

A low creak sounded down the hall, a door yawning ajar. Any moment now . I braced for the ambush. I wiggled my toes and fingers and tried to hold on to the quiet stillness of my bed, these few moments that were mine, unencumbered by Olivia's tiny bladder and her need to pee two thousand times per day or Victoria's spirited refusal to eat white foods. Any minute. Then I heard it, stomping down the hall, a light scratch at my bedroom door, and the screaming creak of the stubborn old hinges as the door was thrown open. A thud as the knob bumped into the dimpled wall. Olivia stood in the doorway in her blue shark pajamas, grinning with Beatrice, the stuffed Narwhal dangling upside down in her left hand.

"Mamma? Hello?" Olivia called out, her big green eyes dancing at the sight of me. And Gods, I loved the way the girls lit up when they saw me. Olivia launched Beatrice onto the bed, then seized the white comforter in her tiny hands, hauling herself up.

Another set of footsteps with a wider gait approached. "Moooom! Wake up." Victoria whined as she entered the room and effortlessly climbed onto the bed, flopping down next to me and immediately burrowing her face into my neck just like she did when she was a baby.

Victoria had always been my nuzzler, smashing her face into my skin as if she were trying to get herself absorbed back into the womb. Olivia, on the other hand, I was lucky if I got one hug every couple of days most of the time.

"What should we do today, my little Jelly Beans?" I asked.

I stretched the blanket over us like a fort. Olivia clapped, giggled, then reached up to touch the blanket above her. Victoria tried to smooth her wild hair back, pushing rogue strands off her forehead.

"We have all morning and afternoon before you go to your grandma's house, remember?" I asked. The girls nodded as they remembered. I looked at their little faces. They adored their grandma, even though Jess and I could barely stand the woman who had birthed us. It's not that we didn't love her. It's just that we realized a long time ago that life was a lot easier when her impossible standards were kept at a digestible distance.

"Let's make pancakes!" She said, "Pancakes!"

"Okay, sounds good," I agreed, letting go of the comforter that floated down over all of us.

Victoria laughed, trapped under the blanket, and threw it back, bathing the three of us in clouded sunlight. I winced and reached up to my wild hair to untangle Olivia's hands from my twisted waves.

"So we'll make pancakes," I said, finally freeing Olivia's fingers from my head, "And then?"

"PARK!" Victoria yelled, bouncing.

"Okay, okay, go grab your aprons, and I'll be right out," I said, pulling my daughters in for a hug, squishing their soft round cheeks into mine. The girls wiggled out of my embrace and flopped and bounced to the edge of the bed, shrieking with laughter.

Olivia and Victoria slid off the bed and ran out of the room, screeching, their hard little feet pounding into the old floors, thumping and creaking their way toward the kitchen.

Seventy-thousand hours later, all hell had broken loose. The quartz countertops of the kitchen island dripped with pancake batter and maple syrup, and I leaned against them with a half-empty cup of coffee in my hand, trying to rally some calm into my body. Olivia flailed on the ground, screaming at the top of her lungs, mouth agape, eyes squeezed shut, legs kicking every which way. Victoria sat at the island counter, silently eating a pancake as if her sister wasn't losing her shit a few feet away.

"I wanted to pour it myself!" Olivia shouted. "Why did Victoria do it?" She sobbed. Then she got to her feet, charged Victoria's legs, and missed.

"Don't do that." I said firmly, trying to remember what I'm "supposed" to do when my youngest turns into a homicidal football player. Then it came to me. I set the coffee cup down on the counter while Olivia backed up to charge again, her face wet from crying, her hair sticky with maple syrup.

"I wanted to!" She yelled again.

Olivia barrelled towards her sister again, but I calmly dropped to my knees and blocked the attack with my arms. I gently held Olivia's arms down by her side and made eye contact.

"You're frustrated and mad because your sister poured your maple syrup. I feel mad sometimes, too. It's okay to be mad. I will not let you tackle your sister, though."

Olivia continued the tantrum for a minute, and then her arms relaxed as she backed away from me, still crying. She turned on her heel, scanning the room for something to destroy, spotted something and went for it. Before I could catch her, Olivia knocked a stack of papers from the counter on the way to the stairs and headed toward her bedroom. White stationery floated to the floor like leaves on the wind scattered across the hardwood.

I swallowed hard and tried to remind myself that I loved my children.

"Nothing in the damn books about what to do when they do that," I grumbled as I dragged myself towards the papers on the ground, dropping to my knees to gather them up.

"Liv is so rude," Victoria said flatly.

"Ria, we're all learning." I reminded her.

I crawled around collecting papers.

Was that the right thing to say? I wondered, searching my brain for an article or book or social media post about how to talk to your older kid about being a shamey asshole. While I reflected on this, the sound of spilled liquid came from somewhere nearby. I sat up on my heels like a meerkat, scanning the kitchen for the culprit. Ria stared at the counter as a river of orange juice flowed across the quartz and onto the floor. "Sorry, mom!" Victoria said, "it was an accident! I'll clean it up!" Then I heard splashing and Olivia growling, "puddle!" When had she snuck back in here?

"Mom! Olivia is jumping in the orange juice!" Victoria growled.

"Olivia, I want you to stop that," I commanded, my voice low and slowly turning hostile.

Olivia took off running, a trail of sticky orange juice footprints behind her.

"Shit!" I cursed.

"Mom! You said a bad word!" Victoria accused.

"Jesus Christ, Ria, I know. Can you just give me a minute?" I snapped and felt guilt barrel into me immediately.

Ria's eyes met the countertop, and her bottom lip quivered. She began to cry softly.

"You're being mean to me," Victoria whispered.

Shame washed over me in nausea-inducing waves. I had to remind myself that everyone makes mistakes. It's fine. The rage I felt daily continued to surprise me, even years into my parenting journey. And I knew that a big part of it was because I didn't have support which made me that much more angry toward Steven.

I had expected to feel tired, have long days, struggle, but nothing could have prepared me for the white-hot rage that felt like I might set fire to the world. I counted in my head, 5,4,3,2,1. Then got to my feet. I set the paper stack on the counter and slid onto the stool next to Ria.

"Ria? I'm sorry I yelled. I felt frustrated and let my emotions get the better of me. I'll manage my feelings better next time. Okay?"

I offered her a hug. She accepted, and while my arms were wrapped tightly around her, I kissed her head and held her a moment. We finished breakfast on the porch. It was early and chilly, but I had to get out of the house. I sipped my coffee with too much cream and sugar, cupping it like a precious goblet, while the girls made fart noises at each other and told the same "knock-knock" joke a hundred times. They slowly migrated from the table to the floor, from shoes to bare feet, and then from the steps to the cold, soggy grass to play tag. I watched and waited for the sensory overload I felt to dissipate. I wandered down from the porch, mug still in hand, to gather herbs from a narrow garden bed on the far side of the yard to dry. It was fall, and I wanted to have plenty dried before winter. Olivia and Victoria buzzed underfoot, fled to the opposite side of the yard, then disappeared around the back. I gathered some dill and gently placed it in a small pile on the edge of the planter. I smelled my fingers, inhaling the lemony, earthy scent. It reminded me of Bahgali rice, of lima beans, of my father cooking in the kitchen on a weekend night while Jess and I read in the tea room. I carefully tugged off a few stems of fennel and some rosemary, smelling my fingers between each of them.

"I love the smell of lemon balm." A man said in a low voice that reminded me of red wine, linen sheets, and late nights.

Andras smiled at me from the other side of the fence, hands in his pockets. Where was he going so early in the morning dressed in black trousers, a black wool sweater, and a long gray overcoat? Many men in Denver tried to pull off the "elegant man about town" look, but most of them missed the mark. Andras, well, he looked like the designer had made the clothes with him in mind. He was the perfect opposite of me in my loungewear speckled with pancake batter, and brown slipper boots. I wished I could run into this man just once when I looked, well, better .

"How long have you been standing there?" I asked.

I absentmindedly plucked a lemon balm leaf and handed it to Andras, who gingerly took it and brought it to his nose.

"Smells so lovely. Reminds me of tea." He said. "I used to drink some before bed to help me sleep a long time ago."

"I practically freebase it on nights when I'm anxious."

Andras laughed, low and throaty. He placed the leaf on his tongue, a simple act that he somehow made sensual, and swallowed.

"And how is it?" I asked.

"Doesn't mix well with the coffee I just drank. At Twilight–that new cafe down the street. Have you been? It's quite lovely."

I shook my head.

"Well, maybe at some point I'll see you there?" He smiled, "How are you?"

I tracked ducks flying south in the sky. The day was sunny but a little cold, and I appreciated the sun on my face. The herbs perfumed the air. I folded my arms across my chest and leaned back a little.

"Honestly? I don't know. Marriage is, well…and parenting is tough. It's like no matter how many books I read, no matter what I do, I feel like I'm constantly flailing. I just want to be a good mom and have them grow up to be okay, and sometimes that feels impossible."

Andras tilted his head as if he were confused. I assumed I'd freaked him out by oversharing.

I continued, "I'm aware that I just unloaded a lot, and I don't know you at all."

"Can I ask you a forward question?" He asked.

I nodded.

"Do you like your girls?"

I frowned and crossed my arms.

"Of course I love them. I'd die for them. I'm biologically wired to throw myself into traffic for them."

"Admirable. But I didn't ask if you love them. Of course, you love them, or you wouldn't be fretting over your parenting mistakes. What I asked is if you like them. Do you like who they are when they're not a bit of a challenge? Do you like their personalities? Their true character."

I focused on the stones around the garden beds while I pondered the question. My girls were funny and kind. Victoria always wanted to do her best and enjoyed rules and telling everyone else how to follow them. Olivia was strong-willed and focused. They both had brilliant imaginations, laughed loudly, and questioned endlessly.

I liked both of them immensely.

"I do."

"So," Andras searched my face for something, "What don't you trust about that?"

I blinked.

"I don't know," I said, barely above a whisper.

He smiled softly down at me. His head cocked to the side.

"Speaking of, I think your little ones are coming this way." He said.

Just then, my daughters came squealing around the side of the house, running straight into me, nearly knocking me off the planter box. I grunted, then wrapped my arms around them.

"Who is that, Mama?" Victoria asked, eyeing Andras. "I heard you talking to someone and came to see."

"This is our new neighbor," I said.

"Hi! I'm Olivia!" Liv offered up.

Andras smiled warmly at each of them. He extended his hand to shake Olivia's, "Very nice to make your acquaintance, Olivia. My name is Andras."

"Nice to meet you!" Olivia beamed and reached through the iron fence to shake his hand.

"And you are?" He asked Ria.

"I'm Victoria," she said suspiciously. It's nice to meet you, Andras." She kept her arms firmly at her side.

"So, your mother and I were just talking about plants." Liv and Ria looked between Andras and me. Andras continued, "Would you like to weigh in? Do either of you have a favorite plant? I'll go first, Lily of the Valley. Because it can thrive in even the harshest conditions."

Victoria's brow knitted together as she considered. Olivia hopped from one foot to the next, then yelled out, "Death Camus!"

Andras's eyes went wide with surprise, then he threw back his head and laughed deeply, "Death Camus! Why is that your favorite?"

"It's pretty, but you can't touch it because Mom said it will kill you. It's cool."

"Yeah, that's true," I added.

"Well, I think your knowledge of plants is very interesting. You're so young to know so much already." Andras said to Liv.

Victoria stepped forward, not willing to be overshadowed by her little sister, "Horehound. Because mom gives it to us when we're sick, and it makes us feel better."

Andras glanced from me to Victoria, "Wow, that's an excellent plant. Healing plants are very important, and again, I'm utterly impressed by how much you know. You're both brilliant, I can tell."

Victoria smiled and twirled. Andras glanced back at me, "And what about you? What's your favorite?"

I didn't have to think about it. I'd been obsessed with the same flower since childhood, the one they made perfume and rose water from. The one we saw over and over again in Persian paintings and tasted in Persian dishes growing up.

"The damask rose," I said, smiling. I gestured across the yard to a rosebush. "I had it imported from Iran. And honestly, it would have probably been easier to import a tiger. It's nearly impossible to find someone on this continent that sells it."

"Beautiful," Andras said, holding my gaze until I felt awkward and looked at my hands.

"Can we get a tiger?" Olivia asked, hopping from foot to foot faster now.

"No." I said.

Olivia pouted. Victoria turned to her sister, annoyed, and demanded to know where in the world we would keep a tiger. They were heading towards a fight. Gods help me. Andras slipped his phone out of his pocket and checked the screen.

"Well, it was so lovely meeting both of you." He said to the girls, "Have a lovely day, Miss Olivia and Miss Victoria." He bowed his head to each of them.

"It was very nice to see you, too, Danny."

I cleared my throat, "Uhm, yeah, you too."

Andras slid his hands back into his pockets, smiled warmly, and sketched a bow before casually strolling off.