Mine casts a much wider net. Of course he is in there, but so are meditations about motherhood and marriage. When we spoke on the phone the other day, we both agreed that there can be some sticking points. There already have been. Factual errors are fine, but when I feel like a goddamned caricature, I stand up and say something. I'm glad I did.
From mine:
He
put the truck in gear but didn’t move. Instead we sat still on my street,
looking at the sage and jasmine, the jacaranda trees and the wayward rosemary
that grew wild out here just as it did in my own backyard. Grant Street had
changed so much from when we first moved here. Back in 2006 it was still
recovering from slight stigma, from being a tattier stretch. Now in 2017 it was
dotted with homes that would sell for a million or more. We’re not talking
mansions. We’re just talking places to live.
“Your
street is cute,” he said without looking at me.
“Why
wouldn’t you come into my house?”
“I
told you.”
“And
you were full of shit. Why couldn’t you give me and my husband the courtesy of spending five minutes in our house?”
“Did
you really want that? I mean, really?”
Well,
there was a question. Part of me hadn’t wanted him in my house, if I was to be
honest. My place was too heartfelt, too vulnerable. There was a picture of me
at six, holding my childhood dog; a shot of the three of us, Adam and Baz and
me, in the hospital immediately after birth, together as a family for the first
time.
What
would it mean to share these moments with Jack? Would he understand their
significance or just shit all over them?
More
to the point, did I even want to
share them? Wasn’t part of the purpose of this relationship – such as it was –
the desire to keep something separate and strictly to myself? If that was the
case, then why was I looking to stuff my sweet little family life down his
throat?
I
laughed for no reason, no reason at all.
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