The holidays were rapidly approaching, and at the time, I was working as seasonal help at the Dedham Costco. The job was physical, with straightforward responsibilities: keep products on the shelves. My days were spent restocking pallets of bottled water, pet food, paper towels, and other bulk goods. Occasionally, I'd run into familiar faces. One day, unexpectedly, I received words of encouragement from an unlikely source.
I knew Ron Elmos through events at our local elementary school. He was a tall guy, a firefighter, and a natural leader. One thing we shared in common though: we both had all sons. Over the years, we'd run into each other at school activities and kids' sporting events. One summer, my wife and I hosted a party for our two August-born sons and invited their friends and families to celebrate. The house was beautiful, and I remember feeling proud to have it on display.
As the party wound down, the moms gathered in the front yard, supervising kids who begged for a final turn in the rented bounce house. Meanwhile, I offered cigars to the fathers, and Ron and I ended up on the backyard's lower-tiered redwood deck, away from the chaos, sharing an easy camaraderie.
Seeing him now at Costco, I felt a twinge of embarrassment. My work circumstances had obviously changed, but more than that, I was sure he'd heard the stories. Stories about the breakup of my marriage and the course of events that followed. Without the benefit of context, I imagined it all looked straightforward: a 46-year-old man walking out on his wife of 20 years for someone younger and more attractive. An obvious case of midlife crisis.
At school functions, the other parents didn't seem to know what to say to me anymore. Maybe they avoided me, or maybe I only thought they did. Their smiles felt strained, the interactions brief, though I couldn't tell if that was their discomfort—or mine.
But Ron approached me directly.
He must have sensed my unease. I struggled to hold his gaze, guilt welling up as I imagined what he might be thinking—knowing that, at least in part, what others believed was true.
Ron didn't let me look away. He extended his hand, gripping mine firmly.
"We are survivors," he said.
His voice was steady, commanding—the kind of voice men instinctively follow. The short, direct statement felt redemptive. It cut through my shame and strengthened my resolve.
YOU ARE READING
NAVEL GAZING: excessive absorption in self-analysis or focus on a single issue
Non-Fiction-A Lie I decided to focus on family, choosing to believe-and have faith-that everything else would fall into place. I wasn't comfortable-or good-at lying to her. So, when Samantha surprised me one day by swallowing her pride and asking directly if a...
