Chapter 13 - THE WOMAN WHO DIDN’T SAY “I WOULD NEVER”
Celia was an architect.
Divorced.
One son in Matilda’s class.
Dry sense of humor.
She didn’t sweep into our lives.
She simply kept appearing at school events.
Then coffee.
Then dinner.
The first time she ate at our house, Matilda knocked over a glass of milk.
I froze.
Celia didn’t.
She handed Matilda a towel.
“Congratulations.”
Matilda blinked.
“For what?”
“You have successfully demonstrated gravity.”
Matilda laughed.
No scolding.
No performance of kindness.
No exaggerated reassurance aimed at me.
Later Celia asked:
“Why did you look like someone pulled a fire alarm when she spilled milk?”
I told her part of the story.
Not everything.
Enough.
She didn’t say:
I would never do that.
That was the sentence I expected.
Instead, she said:
“That must be hard for both of you.”
Both.
I liked that answer.
We dated painfully slowly.
Matilda realized what was happening before I admitted it.
One afternoon she asked:
“Do you like Celia like a girlfriend?”
I nearly drove onto the sidewalk.
“Why?”
“You use your nice voice.”
“What nice voice?”
“The voice you make when you want someone to think you’re funny.”
Humiliating.
“Yes.”
I admitted.
“Do you mind?”
Matilda considered.
“No.”
Then:
“She doesn’t make my juice.”
My heart broke and healed in the same second.
“No.”
“She lets me pour it.”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
Apparently, that was approval.
Celia never attempted to become Beatrice.
She didn’t ask Matilda to call her Mom.
Didn’t remove photographs.
Didn’t compete with a dead woman.
She also refused to let me use Matilda as an excuse to avoid every difficult relationship conversation.
Once I said:
“I need to make sure Matilda is comfortable.”
Celia replied:
“Of course. But sometimes you also need to admit when you’re uncomfortable.”
Annoying.
Accurate.
Six years after Pamela’s arrest, Celia and I decided to marry.
Before we did, she demanded something.
Three attorneys.
Hers.
Mine.
And one solely concerned with Matilda’s trust interests.
“Romantic,” I said.
“Transparency is hot.”
From the hallway, twelve-year-old Matilda yelled:
“Gross!”
I laughed.
Normal.
Ordinary.
May you like
Safe.
I had once underestimated how beautiful those words could be.
