The doorbell rang twice in succession, and Willa attempted to untangle the curling iron that had caught a lock of thick, auburn hair. She pulled it loose, but with it came seared strands. She grimaced—she couldn’t afford to lose more hair—at 33, she was shedding like a Shetland sheepdog. She had an appointment scheduled next week with an infertility specialist, Dr. Weinberg—with high hopes he could tell her why she and David were unable to conceive.
The door knocker banged.
“Coming!” She padded down the stairs to the entryway, then peered into the peephole.
A woman and a boy stood on the concrete stoop.
There was a suitcase, tattered and brown, next to the boy.
Willa opened the door. “Can I help you?”
The woman’s eyes were swollen and red. “Is David here?” She was wearing jeans and a faded Cheap Trick t-shirt, which would prove to be providential.
“He’s at work. He’ll be home in about an hour. Who are you?”
The woman on the stoop shoved the boy in front of her, like a shopping cart she was sliding into a corral in the Safeway parking lot. “This is Michael. He’s David’s son. I can’t do this anymore. He’s all yours. I’m done.”
She turned on a militant heel and walked down the steps to a blue Kia with a dent in the passenger side that looked much like a fist had been shoved into it. She didn’t say goodbye, or look back as she pulled away from the curb.
The boy’s small hands trembled as he picked up the suitcase, his eye’s wide with fear. “I’m sorry,” he said. He bit hard into his lower lip.
Willa winced and reached for the boy with outstretched arms. “Come inside, Michael. It’s going to be okay.”
And on that day, Willa became mother to an 8-year old boy whom her husband had failed to mention existed during their one year courtship and seven-month marriage. She was enraged at him for hiding Michael from her, but most of all, for not being a father to his young son.
And Michael wasn’t easy. He’d moved around a lot with his mom, and had fallen behind in school. Third grade became the challenge of the year, and Willa’s job slipped quietly by the wayside as multiplication flashcards and visits with the principal, counselor, and pediatrician took precedence.
Willa read up on Erickson’s psychosocial stages of development, and tried hard to do everything right for Michael—but no matter what she did, one fact remained a constant.
Michael still hated her.
One tearful day, Willa decided to stop being the perfect mom. She threw the flash cards in the garbage can. The carefully peeled organic carrots were removed from his lunch box and a hefty handful of Hershey’s kisses peppered the top of his foil-wrapped peanut butter sandwich. She cancelled the evaluation scheduled with teachers and the principal at noon, and told them Michael would not be at school that day.
All these things were important, yes, but would come later. Maybe she had failed the most important things Michael needed from her: Patience. Understanding. Acceptance.
Imperfection.
That day Willa and Michael played hooky and went to the batting cages and the park. David left work early and joined them for a late lunch by the swings. The seeds of love began to germinate that afternoon—enlarging and expanding the bond between the little family. Fears dissipated as the three enjoyed a lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and kisses.
Both kinds.
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