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Part 2: Sunday Dinner
The table was quiet.
Emma was staring at Tyler. Her face was pink.
Mark rolled his sleeves back down. He picked up his fork. He said, gently, Thanks for telling me that, Tyler.
Tyler said, I’m sorry, Emma. I shouldn’t have said that about your arms.
Emma didn’t answer right away. She looked at her own arms.
Then she said, quietly, It made me feel really bad.
Tyler nodded. He said, I know. I’m sorry.
After dinner, Mark asked Tyler to help him with the dishes. Just the two of them.
I sat with Emma in the living room. I could hear them talking in the kitchen. I couldn’t hear what they said.
Twenty minutes later, Tyler came out. His eyes were red.
He said goodbye to Emma. He said thank you for dinner. He left.
Emma looked at me. She said, What do you think Dad said to him?
I said, I don’t know, sweetheart.
Later that night, I asked Mark.
He said, I told him what my father used to say to my mother. Every morning.
Fix your hair. Change that dress. You look tired.
He said, I told him I said the same thing to my first girlfriend in high school. Because I thought that’s how you talked to girls.
He said, I told him she cried in the hallway. And I’ve never forgotten it.
He said, Then I told him he’s fifteen. He can still decide what kind of man he wants to be.
At ten o’clock, my phone rang. A number I didn’t know.
A woman’s voice. She said, This is Tyler’s mother. Donna.
She was upset.
She said, Tyler came home crying. He said your husband talked to him about his father.
She said, You had no right. You don’t know anything about my family.
She said, You invited my son to dinner to humiliate him.
I kept my voice calm.
Donna, I said, nobody humiliated Tyler. Mark talked to him about respect.
Donna was quiet.
Then she said, quietly, Tyler asked me tonight if his dad talks to me the way he talked to your daughter.
I didn’t know what to tell him.
Part 3: Two Months
I didn’t sleep much that night. I sat in Emma’s doorway after she fell asleep. I let myself count.
Fifteen years old.
I counted the times Emma ever worried about her arms. Zero. Until two weeks ago.
I counted the things she loved about herself. Her laugh. Her long legs. Her soccer kicks. Her dad’s dark eyes.
I counted the swimsuits she wore last summer. Three. She never once covered her arms.
Then I counted Tyler’s two months.
He told her she should wear more makeup. Once.
He told her she should stop eating so loud. Once.
He told her she looked better with her hair down. Twice.
She told me about these now. She said she thought they were just suggestions.
Then he told her about her arms.
She tried on my razor in the bathroom. She didn’t use it. She cried instead.
Then I counted Mark.
Forty-four years old. His father criticized his mother every day for thirty years. Her clothes. Her cooking. Her weight.
Mark told me he promised himself he’d never do it.
Then, at sixteen, he told his first girlfriend her laugh was too loud.
He said, She stopped laughing around me. I noticed. I didn’t stop.
He said, I’ve been ashamed of that for twenty-eight years.
Then I counted Tyler.
Fifteen. Polite. Helpful. Grew up listening to his father tell his mother she wasn’t good enough.
He thought that was love.
On Tuesday after school, the doorbell rang.
It was Tyler. And his mother. Donna.
Part 4: Donna
Donna stood on our porch. Forties. Tired eyes. Her arms crossed.
Tyler stood beside her. He looked at the ground.
Donna said, I want to talk to you and your husband.
Mark came to the door. We stepped outside.
Donna said, Tyler told me everything your husband said. About his father. About the dishes.
She said, You don’t get to lecture my son about how to treat women. You don’t know us.
She said, His father works two jobs. He provides for us. He’s not some monster.
She said, Maybe he’s a little critical. Lots of men are. That doesn’t make him abusive.
Then she said the thing she came to say.
Stay out of my family. And tell your daughter to stay away from my son.
I felt that one land. It was meant to.
Because she was right. We didn’t know her family.
Mark took a slow breath.
Donna, he said quietly, you’re right. I don’t know your family.
She nodded.
But I know mine, he said. My father told my mother to fix something about herself every morning for thirty years.
She stopped wearing colors. She stopped singing. She stopped going out.
I watched my mother disappear. One comment at a time.
Donna’s face changed.
I didn’t lecture Tyler, Mark said gently. I told him the truth about me.
And I told him he gets to choose.
Donna didn’t say anything for a long time.
Then Tyler spoke. Quietly.
He said, Mom. Dad told you to cut your hair last month. You loved your hair.
You cried in the car after.
I saw you.
Donna put her hand over her mouth.
Part 5: Bear Arms
Donna stood on our porch. Her eyes filled with tears.
She said, quietly, I didn’t know you saw that.
Tyler said, I see a lot of things, Mom.
Donna looked at Mark. Then at me.
She said, I’m sorry. For what I said. I came here to protect my son. I think I came here to protect myself.
She said, I don’t know what to do about his father.
I said, gently, You don’t have to know today.
I wrote down the name of a counselor on a scrap of paper. One I’d seen years ago. I handed it to her.
She looked at it for a long time. Then she put it in her pocket.
Emma broke up with Tyler that week. She did it kindly. In person. At school.
She told me she said, I think we should just be friends. I want to be with someone who likes my arms.
Tyler said, I understand. I’m sorry.
They’re friends now. They sit together at lunch sometimes.
Tyler told Emma last month that his mom started seeing someone. A counselor. She goes on Thursdays.
He said, She grew her hair back out.
Emma played on her school’s soccer team in the spring. She wore short sleeves every game.
At the end-of-season party, the coach gave out awards.
Emma won Most Improved.
When she walked up to get her trophy, someone in the crowd whistled.
It was Tyler. Cheering.
That night, Emma came into the living room. Mark was watching TV. His sleeves rolled up.
She sat down beside him. She leaned her head on his arm.
She said, Dad. Remember when I was little? And I said you had bear arms?
Mark said, I remember.
She said, I used to think they were the warmest arms in the world.
She looked at her own arm. Next to his.
Then she smiled.
She said, I guess I have bear arms too.
Mark put his arm around her.
He said, Best arms in the world, kiddo.
And they’re warm.
