The Son With Two Mom's, Chapter 1

The Son With Two Moms, Chapter 2

Writing on the Wall

I found Mary's journal while cleaning the living room during one of those hot, muggy, August days. I rifled through mounds of musty envelopes containing bank statements, came across a Time magazine article detailing how the U.S. was going to respond to 9/11, and found a couple of old books detailing the race problem in America. It had been a long day of cleaning, and yet I was enjoying having something to do. I didn't have a job, my college credit summer class had ended weeks ago, and it was two in the afternoon; much too early for my daily rendezvous with neighborhood friends. After watching several episodes of the show Supernatural, I decided that it was time to do some work. I had made cleaning the entire house by the end of the summer my goal, and I intended to reach it.

The whole place had been a cluttered mess ever since Mary began her prolonged hospital stays. She was our rock when it came to housekeeping. Indeed, she vacuumed, cooked, and scrubbed her way into our hearts. With her gone, Janet and I were left to fend for ourselves, which we did poorly. Our food dynamic in particular changed abruptly, and takeout took precedence over the homemade pasta and chicken pot pie that Mary had been so fond of making. In her absence, Janet and I became resourceful takeout carnivores. Rotisserie chicken was often our dinner of choice.

On a typical night we eat in the den. Behind us sits a framed caricature of two women and a little boy at the beach.

Black wooden TV trays sit in front of us as our eyes stay glued to the tube. NBC is the channel and Law & Order is the show. Janet sets down a book on the now-empty TV tray. The book sits atop one of my old Sports Illustrated magazines, which covers an old Newsweek. Neither of us has enough energy to move. By the end of the month, the TV tray is stacked to capacity, and we have another TV tray simply for food.

In a few weeks, the chairs in the living room have books on them, the couch has books on it, the table where mama used to serve dinner has books on it, and Mary's side of the bed is covered with books. After ten years, our home had become complete chaos. However, I am grateful for the chaos, which allowed me to find a lost treasure, a piece of writing that I was meant to find as a young adult rather than a small child. That very first paragraph summed up how Mary was feeling at the time—a time when she did not feel comfortable expressing her true emotions to her young son.

I'm 33 years old. I have a good marriage, a beautiful 7 and a half year old son, a rewarding career and many friends; I'm financially comfortable but not wealthy. My needs aren't extravagant. I've always enjoyed good health, even excellent health. I also have cancer."

The words still echo in my mind, bringing a complicated chill over me as they did on that hot August day, so many seasons ago.