A Mother's Goodbye

‘I’m not rushing into anything,’ Stella says after a moment. ‘We don’t need the money, and I’m enjoying everything.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘To tell you the truth, I actually like being class mom.’ Which makes me laugh. ‘And we couldn’t go to France in the summer if I had to work.’

Stella and her family rent a villa in the south of France every year for three whole months while her husband Eric telecommutes. It makes Isaac’s and my one week on Cape Cod look a little pathetic in comparison. We go to the same weather-beaten cottage my dad and I used to go to, and in truth I wouldn’t change it for anything.

Those seven days on the Cape are the pinnacle of my year – lazy days on the beach, games of Pinochle by the little woodstove, a week of relaxation and remembering how much I love my son, how grateful I am for my life. I remember how I’d imagined those vacations before Isaac was born. Before I even knew he was a boy I saw us there, lying on the beach, looking up at the stars. Toasting marshmallows, building sandcastles, and savoring every single moment.

‘You know I’ll have Isaac over here,’ Stella says. ‘We have karate on Monday and swimming on Wednesday, music lessons on Friday…’ She grimaces, acknowledging, at least a little bit, how crazy and ridiculous the Manhattan child’s overscheduled life is. ‘But Tuesdays and Thursday, it’s no problem. At all.’

‘That’s really kind.’ I’m hesitant to take her up on such a generous offer, even though I know she means it. There’s absolutely no way I could repay her in kind, ever. ‘I might take you up on it.’

‘I mean it, Grace.’ Stella leans forward, her expression turning intent, her voice urgent. ‘Look, I know how easy I have it. How lucky I am.’ Another grimace. ‘I’m sure some people look at me and think I don’t realize it, that I’m a spoiled princess of a Manhattan mother, and I probably am, but…’ She sighs and spreads her hands. ‘Let me help. I want to.’

I believe her, and so I smile and hoist my margarita. ‘Trust me, I will.’

Sitting there, sipping my drink, I feel light with happiness despite the childcare worries. I am grateful for these simple moments – friendship, motherhood. No matter how difficult it all feels sometimes, I know I’m lucky, just as lucky as Stella, but in a different way. I have more than I ever thought I would. More than I ever thought was possible.

Stella looks like she’s going to say

something more; she pauses, her glass halfway to her mouth, and I tense, sensing something big. ‘What?’ I finally ask with a little laugh, and she gives me a slight abashed smile.

‘It’s just… I hate to seem nosy because I know how tricky these things are… but is Isaac’s father involved in any way?’

The questioning smile freezes on my face. I haven’t told Stella Isaac is adopted, and he obviously hasn’t mentioned it either. I decided a long time ago to be completely open with Isaac about his adoption; even when he was a baby, I made it into a bedtime story, pointed to photos of him as a wrinkly newborn, explained how he was special, how I’d chosen him. And, in truth, I didn’t have any other options really, with Aunt Heather in the picture from day one, although in those cozy stories I didn’t always mention her. Mostly I didn’t. And obviously I didn’t advertise his adoption, either. It’s always felt personal. Not a secret, but… private.

‘Isaac’s adopted,’ I say now to Stella, keeping my tone easy and matter-of-fact. ‘There never was a father in the picture.’ Which feels a little unfair to Kevin McCleary.

‘Oh. Wow. Sorry, I didn’t know.’ Stella absorbs this information as she sips her drink. ‘That’s wonderful, though. Did you go international?’ she asks, which makes it sound as if we’re talking about a shopping trip to Paris.

‘No, domestic. Actually…’ With Heather’s phone call still in the forefront of my mind, I find myself admitting, ‘His birth parents live in New Jersey. We see them once a month.’

‘Once a month?’ Stella looks incredulous, as well as both admiring and slightly horrified. ‘Wow. That must be so… well, how is it? I mean, I can’t even imagine.’

‘It’s a bit difficult.’ I want to confess how completely awful I’ve found it, how I’m longing for it to end, but something holds me back, maybe even a weird loyalty to Heather.

‘Why do you…? I mean, did the birth parents suggest it? They must have… and did you have to agree?’ She shakes her head, still seeming disbelieving, and I feel a satisfying little pinprick of validation. Yes, it is weird and difficult and I’ve been enduring it for seven years. Thank you, Stella, for getting that.

‘The birth mother did,’ I say. ‘Her name’s Heather. She was pretty insistent about it, although beforehand she said she wanted a closed adoption, like I did.’ I can’t quite keep the bitterness from seeping into my voice like some poisonous gas. Why, Heather? Why couldn’t you have just stuck to the original agreement?

‘Oh, wow.’ Stella’s eyes are wide. ‘That must be so incredibly difficult. I mean, is it?’

I laugh, the sound coming out a bit too hard. ‘Yes, actually,’ I say, and drain my margarita. ‘It is, a bit.’

‘Goodness.’ Stella shakes her head slowly. ‘Do you guys… I mean, do you get along?’

‘Sort of.’ It seems petty to admit we don’t. Why can’t I get along better with Heather? Why can’t I just shrug my shoulders at her unending neediness, remind myself it’s only one afternoon a month, and I’m the real winner, I have Isaac all the time? She gave him to me. Why can’t I remember that instead of gritting my teeth, getting annoyed at every little thing? I’m not being fair to her, I know that, but she’s not fair to me.

‘How long do you think you’ll have to keep the visits up?’ Stella asks. ‘Does Heather want to… you know, keep going? Forever? And what about Isaac?’ She lowers her voice even though the boys are miles away in the TV den. ‘How does he find the visits?’

‘Tricky.’ I hesitate, again feeling that weird sense of loyalty. ‘He enjoys them sometimes, but it can feel… confusing.’

‘I’m sure.’ Stella nods vigorously. ‘Of course it does.’

‘Actually,’ I say as she refills my empty glass, ‘I’ve asked Heather if we can visit once every three months instead. Start to let things taper off naturally.’ Although I know none of it will feel natural to Heather.

‘And how did she take that?’

‘Not very well.’ I pause, searching for something that sounds diplomatic. ‘She’s a bit… clingy.’

‘Oh, great.’ Stella rolls her eyes in commiseration. ‘Honestly, Grace, that sounds like a nightmare. The sooner you can cut things off, the better, if you ask me. Do you think it might get… messy?’