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Part 2: Dennis
Robert stood up. He backed away from his father.
He said, What are you doing here?
Dennis said, She called me. Last week. Your fiancée.
Robert turned to me. His face was red. You called him? Behind my back?
I said, I wanted to understand. Your mother won’t talk about him. You won’t talk about him.
I found him online. I asked him to tell me what happened.
Dennis sat down slowly on our couch. He set the nail clippers on the coffee table.
He said, I was married to your mother for twenty-six years.
She did everything for me. Cooked every meal. Ironed every shirt. Paid every bill. Made every appointment.
Cut my toenails. Every other Sunday.
Robert stared at him.
Dennis said, Eight years ago, your mother had back surgery. She couldn’t get out of bed for six weeks.
I didn’t know how to boil water. I didn’t know where she kept the checkbook. I didn’t know our own doctor’s phone number.
I ordered pizza every night for six weeks. I let the bills go late. I forgot her medication twice.
He said, One night she called her sister to come take care of her. Because I couldn’t.
When she got better, she asked me for a divorce.
He said, She told me, I raised one child. I won’t raise two.
Robert didn’t say anything.
Dennis said, After she left, she poured everything into you. Everything she used to do for me.
He said, I didn’t try to stop it. I was ashamed. I stopped calling. You stopped answering.
He picked up the clippers. He held them out to his son.
He said, I’m sixty years old. I learned to cut my own toenails at fifty-two.
Don’t wait that long.
Robert grabbed his keys. He walked out the front door.
Dennis looked at me. He said, quietly, I’m sorry.
I said, Don’t be. You told the truth.
That night, Barbara called me. She’d heard from Robert.
She was furious. She said I had no right to contact her ex-husband. She said I’d humiliated her son.
She said, You’re trying to turn him against me. Before you’ve even married him.
I kept my voice calm.
Barbara, I said, I’m not trying to turn him against anyone.
And I’m not going to marry him.
The line went silent.
Then Barbara said, very quietly, What did you say?
Part 3: Three Years
I sat on our bedroom floor that night after I hung up. Robert still hadn’t come home. I let myself count.
Three years together.
I counted the dinners I cooked. Almost every night. Robert never once asked if I needed help.
I counted the times I found his lost keys. His wallet. His phone. Too many to count.
I counted the times I called the plumber. The electrician. His dentist. His car insurance company.
I counted the times he said, You’re better at that than me.
I thought it was a compliment.
Then I counted the next fifty years.
Every meal. Every bill. Every appointment. Every lost key.
Every other Sunday, kneeling on the living room floor with a towel in my lap.
Then I counted Barbara.
Twenty-six years doing everything for Dennis. Eight years doing everything for Robert.
She never once asked either of them to learn.
She made herself necessary. Then she resented being necessary.
And she was handing that resentment to me. Along with the clippers.
At two in the morning, Robert came home.
He sat on the edge of the bed. He didn’t say anything for a long time.
Then he said, I drove around for six hours. I went to my dad’s motel.
We talked.
He said, He showed me a picture. Of him and Mom. On their wedding day. They looked so happy.
He said, She left him because he couldn’t take care of her when she needed him.
He looked at me.
He said, Would I be able to take care of you? If you needed me?
I didn’t answer.
In the morning, the doorbell rang.
It was Barbara.
Part 4: Barbara
Barbara stood on our porch. She was holding her purse with both hands. Her eyes were red.
Robert was in the shower. I let her in.
She sat down at our kitchen table. She didn’t take off her coat.
She said, Robert told me you’re calling off the wedding. Over toenails.
She said, That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.
She said, Every marriage has things like that. Small things. You work around them.
She said, I did everything for Dennis for twenty-six years. That’s what a good wife does.
She said, He’s going to be devastated. I’ve already paid the caterer.
Then her voice softened.
She said, He’s a good man. He just needs someone to take care of him. You’re good at that.
Then she said the thing she came to say.
Marry him. I’ll stop coming on Sundays if that’s what you want. Just don’t throw away three years over something this small.
I felt that one land. It was meant to.
Because I loved Robert. I didn’t want to hurt him.
I took a slow breath.
Barbara, I said quietly, it’s not about toenails.
She looked at me.
It’s about you handing me the clippers, I said. And Robert smiling. And both of you telling me I’m not wife material if I don’t take over.
Barbara flinched.
You did everything for Dennis for twenty-six years, I said gently. Then you needed him. And he didn’t know how to help you.
You left him for it.
I don’t want to spend twenty-six years doing everything. And then find out he can’t do anything for me.
Barbara’s eyes filled with tears.
Then I heard footsteps behind me.
Robert was standing in the kitchen doorway. His hair was wet. He’d heard everything.
He looked at his mother.
He said, quietly, Mom. Dad told me why you left him.
Why didn’t you ever tell me?
Part 5: I Don’t
Barbara looked at her son for a long time.
Then she said, very quietly, Because I didn’t want you to think it was my fault.
She said, I did everything for your father. So he never learned. Then I was angry that he never learned.
She said, I did the same thing to you. I knew it. I couldn’t stop.
She put her face in her hands.
Robert sat down beside his mother. He put his arm around her.
Then he looked up at me.
He said, You’re not going to marry me. Are you?
I said, No. Not now.
He nodded. He didn’t argue.
He said, I understand.
We canceled the wedding three days later. We called every guest. Robert made half the calls himself.
I moved into my sister’s spare room. Robert stayed in our apartment.
Barbara stopped coming over on Sundays.
Two months later, I got a text from Robert.
It was a photo. His own bare feet on a towel. A pair of nail clippers in his hand.
Underneath, he wrote, I did it myself. Took me twenty minutes. Didn’t cut myself once.
Then another text.
Dad’s teaching me to cook. Last night we made spaghetti. It was terrible.
Then another.
Mom and Dad had coffee yesterday. First time in eight years. They didn’t fight.
Then one more.
Thank you. For the lesson. I’m sorry I made you teach it.
I read it twice. Then I smiled.
I didn’t write back right away. I wasn’t sure what to say.
A year later, I ran into Robert at a farmers market.
He was carrying his own groceries. He had a list. In his own handwriting.
He looked healthy. Happy.
He said, I’m seeing someone. She’s great. She doesn’t cook.
I laughed. I said, Good for you.
He said, I cook for her. Tuesdays and Thursdays.
Then he said, quietly, I think I’m finally ready to be someone’s husband.
Not someone’s son.
I said, I’m glad, Robert. I really am.
He smiled. He picked up his bag of tomatoes.
Then he said, Oh. And my toenails look great, by the way.
I laughed all the way home.
