flared her nostrils imperiously, and looked away. As if she didn’t want to be
held accountable for what she was about to say: “I blame that crazed hawk Condoleezza Rice. I suspect she pressured all of
them—Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld, et al.—into this ridiculous war.”
“I guess it’s possible,” said Wendy, who had noted before that her mother was the rare feminist who, in every conflict, took
the man’s side—at the expense of whatever woman could feasibly be blamed.
When Wendy got home, she called Adam to tell him about her visit to her mother’s apartment. “She started attacking me the
moment I walked in the door!” Wendy began. “I told her about your dad, and she immediately suggested I wasn’t being supportive
enough.” She waited for Adam to argue otherwise.
But all he said was, “Yeah, she’s a tough one, your mom.”
“And then, immediately after, she was on me about putting too much pressure on you to have a baby. She also told me I waited
too long to have children.”
“Hm,” said Adam.
“What?” said Wendy, further disappointed by her husband’s neutral response.
“I guess I’m wondering why you open up to her at all about personal things, since she always seems to respond in a way that
pisses you off.”
Even Wendy had to admit that Adam had a good point. Which was maybe why she cried, “What? I’m not supposed to tell her your
father is in a coma?!”
“You can tell her about my dad. But why tell her you’re trying to get pregnant?”
“Okay, I’m an idiot for trying to share my life with my own mother!”
“You’re not an idiot,” said Adam. “I just don’t like seeing you upset.”
“I miss you,” said Wendy, suddenly overcome by tenderness for her husband. Or was she simply feeling needy in a more generalized
sense? “When are you coming home?” she asked.
“Wendy, you know I can’t come home right now,” he answered. (Adam only called her Wendy when she’d said something wrong.)
“I know,” said Wendy, trying not to be hurt by the fact that he hadn’t told her he missed her, too. “You’re there for a good
reason. I’ve just been lonely. I’m sorry—I can’t lie about how I feel.”
“Don’t you think I’ve been lonely, too?” said Adam. “At least you have your friends around.”
“I guess.”
“What? Aren’t you seeing Daphne and stuff?”
“She’s been busy with Jerky Jonathan.”
“Well, it’s always like that at the beginning of a relationship. You and I didn’t get out of bed for, like, a week after we
met. Don’t you remember? My mother was leaving all those frantic messages at my apartment.” Adam chuckled at the memory.
“I remember,” Wendy said softly, even though, nearly eight years later, the story mainly existed for her in words, interspersed
with fuzzy images of him naked and kissing the back of her neck. Even so, she liked the idea of her husband reminiscing about
their early days together; it made their love affair seem real, ongoing. “We were crazy back then.”
“Listen,” said Adam. “I miss you, too.” Wendy’s heart fluttered, even if, as usual, his expression of affection for her had
been more reciprocal than spontaneous. “But my parents need me right now.”
How could she argue with that? “I understand,” she told him before she wished him a good night and hung up.
By Thursday evening, Wendy was so eager for the company of like-minded peers—and an excuse to consume excess quantities of
alcohol—that she arrived fifteen minutes early at the Mexican restaurant on Smith Street where Sara had directed her six closest
female friends to assemble. Not even the sight of Paige Ryan, second to arrive and dressed that evening in a black pants suit
and four-inch-high stilettos, put her off. Following their email run-in the previous month, Wendy had decided never again
to communicate in English with the woman. But with the second sip of her margarita,
held accountable for what she was about to say: “I blame that crazed hawk Condoleezza Rice. I suspect she pressured all of
them—Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld, et al.—into this ridiculous war.”
“I guess it’s possible,” said Wendy, who had noted before that her mother was the rare feminist who, in every conflict, took
the man’s side—at the expense of whatever woman could feasibly be blamed.
When Wendy got home, she called Adam to tell him about her visit to her mother’s apartment. “She started attacking me the
moment I walked in the door!” Wendy began. “I told her about your dad, and she immediately suggested I wasn’t being supportive
enough.” She waited for Adam to argue otherwise.
But all he said was, “Yeah, she’s a tough one, your mom.”
“And then, immediately after, she was on me about putting too much pressure on you to have a baby. She also told me I waited
too long to have children.”
“Hm,” said Adam.
“What?” said Wendy, further disappointed by her husband’s neutral response.
“I guess I’m wondering why you open up to her at all about personal things, since she always seems to respond in a way that
pisses you off.”
Even Wendy had to admit that Adam had a good point. Which was maybe why she cried, “What? I’m not supposed to tell her your
father is in a coma?!”
“You can tell her about my dad. But why tell her you’re trying to get pregnant?”
“Okay, I’m an idiot for trying to share my life with my own mother!”
“You’re not an idiot,” said Adam. “I just don’t like seeing you upset.”
“I miss you,” said Wendy, suddenly overcome by tenderness for her husband. Or was she simply feeling needy in a more generalized
sense? “When are you coming home?” she asked.
“Wendy, you know I can’t come home right now,” he answered. (Adam only called her Wendy when she’d said something wrong.)
“I know,” said Wendy, trying not to be hurt by the fact that he hadn’t told her he missed her, too. “You’re there for a good
reason. I’ve just been lonely. I’m sorry—I can’t lie about how I feel.”
“Don’t you think I’ve been lonely, too?” said Adam. “At least you have your friends around.”
“I guess.”
“What? Aren’t you seeing Daphne and stuff?”
“She’s been busy with Jerky Jonathan.”
“Well, it’s always like that at the beginning of a relationship. You and I didn’t get out of bed for, like, a week after we
met. Don’t you remember? My mother was leaving all those frantic messages at my apartment.” Adam chuckled at the memory.
“I remember,” Wendy said softly, even though, nearly eight years later, the story mainly existed for her in words, interspersed
with fuzzy images of him naked and kissing the back of her neck. Even so, she liked the idea of her husband reminiscing about
their early days together; it made their love affair seem real, ongoing. “We were crazy back then.”
“Listen,” said Adam. “I miss you, too.” Wendy’s heart fluttered, even if, as usual, his expression of affection for her had
been more reciprocal than spontaneous. “But my parents need me right now.”
How could she argue with that? “I understand,” she told him before she wished him a good night and hung up.
By Thursday evening, Wendy was so eager for the company of like-minded peers—and an excuse to consume excess quantities of
alcohol—that she arrived fifteen minutes early at the Mexican restaurant on Smith Street where Sara had directed her six closest
female friends to assemble. Not even the sight of Paige Ryan, second to arrive and dressed that evening in a black pants suit
and four-inch-high stilettos, put her off. Following their email run-in the previous month, Wendy had decided never again
to communicate in English with the woman. But with the second sip of her margarita,
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