Few Kinds of Wrong by Tina Chaulk

take or how my idea of a surprise would change once I opened her door.
    The cab light goes out a few seconds after I sit behind the wheel. In the dark of the driveway, I know I have to start the car but I’m trapped in my stillness.
    I see lights go on inside the house — first in the hall, then the living room, and finally the porch. The front door opens and he fills the doorway, his eyes scanning the night until they stop on my car.
    He stands. Unmoving. Staring.
    Minutes pass before Mom appears behind him in the doorway, her robe carefully tied around her waist. I watch as she speaks but he continues to stare ahead. His lips don’t move and hers stop once her gaze follows his and finds me.
    I start the engine and back straight out of the driveway, not taking my eyes off them. Unsure again which way to turn the car, I choose left and drive.

7
    T HE THING I found most confusing about the morning my mother left us, was the lack of tears. I was used to seeing my mother crying or fighting back tears in any sad or touching situation, but that morning her eyes remained dry.
    I was excited when Mom said she would drive me to school. It meant that I wouldn’t have to go on the bus and could stay home a little longer and watch TV.
    I ran to the TV and switched it on, only to have Mom follow me and turn it off. “I have to talk to you about something,” she said, her right hand rubbing the material on her black polyester pants.
    â€œI want to watch TV,” I said, folding my arms and putting on a practiced pout.
    â€œI know but this is very important. You see …” Mom’s eyes searched the room and finally landed on a spot above my head. “I am leaving your dad and going to live with Nanny Philpott. I am not leaving you.” She looked right in my eyes. “I am leaving your father. You are the greatest thing in my life, the most wonderful thing I’ve ever done. And this is the hardest thing I’ll ever do. But I have to do it.” Both her fists were clenched at her sides.
    â€œBut why? Daddy is so great.”
    â€œYes, he is,” Mom said with a smile even my eight-year-old eyes could see was fake. “But …” She paused for a long time and chewed on her lip.
    She kneeled down and looked at me. “Sometimes even the best man in the word can’t make you happy.” Her eyes were different than the soft, caring ones I was used to.
    â€œAnd I can’t make you happy?” I looked down when my voice broke on the word “happy.” One tear escaped down my cheek.
    â€œYou’re the one that has made me happy, Jennifer Matilda. And you always will. But I’m starting to find happy a hard thing to feel.”
    â€œAre you feeling sad? I can tell you a joke Robbie Hynes told me in school. It’s about a frog and the frog—”
    Her hand gently touched my face and I stopped speaking.
    â€œI’m not sad, sweetheart. Maybe one day you’ll understand that there’s a feeling other than happy or sad. But know that nothing, absolutely nothing, can make my love for you go away.”
    â€œWhen will I see you again?” I asked, wiping more tears away.
    â€œI don’t know. I need some time first. Then your father and I will talk about where you’ll live.”
    â€œI want to live with Daddy,” I said without a thought about how it would make her feel. “I have to live with Daddy or he won’t take me to the garage.”
    She closed her eyes. “Yes, I know. That’s why this is the hardest thing I’ll ever do.” She stood up, turned away and went to her room, returning moments later with a sweater around her
shoulders.
    At school, when she dropped me off, she hugged me until I told her she was hurting me.
    â€œI’ll see you before you know it,” she said. “I love you so much.” She touched the side of my face. “And I’m going to call you tonight and every