The Last Supper
It is Saturday morning and we are seated in the kitchen at the small table next to the large windows overlooking the backyard. I am still very much tired, only having just woken up a half an hour ago; you, on the other hand, are wide awake and filled with an energy that I typically possess now that I have moved into my second trimester.
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There are just three things in life that I know without any doubt to be completely, undeniably true:
Firstly, the older I get, the more I realize that Eugene OâNeill is a highly overrated playwright.
Secondly, I have the best wife and the best son in the entire world.
And thirdly, I am still Sandraâs favorite son-in-law, despite the small matter of me not actually being married to her daughter any more.
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They say that first impressions are everything.
If this is the case then I have decided rather quickly that I hate her.
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âYouâre going to get nowhere fast in this industry, in life, if you insist on sporting that permanent frown of yours.â In this over-sized office, seated behind a large mahogany desk, a smoldering cigar held firmly between thumb and forefinger, my father looks every bit the important man that he is.
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The apparent ease with which Nicole agrees to Henryâs request leaves me taken rather aback. Given the characteristic lack of manners she displayed earlier, I was expecting a flat-out refusal, and for Henry to pout for the remainder of the evening. As it is, she has even managed to muster a smile. Â
I reach under the table to briefly place my hand on your knee, to remind you that I am right here, and I allow myself a brief moment to consider that perhaps she will come round, if we play this right âŠ
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There is a moment from my childhood that remains prevalent in my mind to this very day, one which I am thrown back to the instant that Henry opens his mouth in preparation to reveal the news that he swore to keep.
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Weâre having a baby.
Four words. Four simple words have seemed to short-circuited my brain, bringing all forms of coherent thought to a brief but glaring halt. Slowly, and then all at once, the emotions hit me like a rogue wave that has popped up from the depths of my very core, taking me by complete surprise.
Annoyance hits first, giving way to disbelief, which steps aside for anger.
When I lift my head after having mumbled a rather half-assed congratulations, I am greeted by a sight that only fuels my anger further. My mother has reached for Britt, holding her hand as if theyâve been lifelong friends, and beside her, Charlie continues to settle his hand atop the stomach she has hidden so well beneath the sweater she dons.
It is a simple gesture, one that should cause no feeling in me at all, and yet it does. Very much so.
Why, I want to ask. Why are you treating her so well when I had to force your hand onto my own stomach to feel your firstborn kick? Why are you so attentive to her when you could not so much as bother to care about me?
Why?
Why?
Why?
He looks so happy, so pleased that not only has he managed to find himself a new wife, but that heâs so suddenly created a new life both with and within her. Though she has the decency wherewithal to look even the slightest bit uncomfortable with the sudden fawning courtesy of my mother, I find that even she is happy.
She is happy.
He is happy.
My own mother is happy.
My son is happy.
Everyone at this table is happy and I am once again cast aside and forgotten for a younger, prettier thing.