Parents' Weekend

We brought a jigsaw puzzle to the cabin, rented on a Friday-forward holiday. Our tween was bored before we passed the first exit. We needed the escape— a break from where we'd been and where we were (or thought we were, then). I bit my lip the whole drive, sucked in my stomach on the off chance you'd eye me sideways. I was fine-tuning my profile in case it factored into whatever rationalization you’d equated for the day— it's hard to admit, but I was game. There was a lot at stake. It was spacious, more than we expected. The pictures online didn’t do it justice, still we spent most of our time in the basement, working that puzzle, playing darts, watching television. You and I ended up with sore elbows trying to outcompete the other— neither of us offering an out, both making excuses for missing the target. Both hurt, and hurting. Our kid drifted through those days mostly unnoticed, a bored satellite pinging off our orbit. We let him circle, banking on pattern recognition to keep him safe, while we were busy proving things that had nothing to do with him. You woke me in a panic on the day before the last morning. I thought it was over— this was the moment you had chosen to break it to me. You were sweating— breathing heavy like I haven't seen you since we met in your thirties, like I didn't already know her name, have her socials. Something’s happened, you said. Can you come with me? I was thrilled in a way I still believe a righteous executioner might feel hauling someone—shadowed, unnamed— to the gallows. Where to? I asked. You headed to the bathroom. Not the worst place for goodbye sex, but not my first choice either. What is this? you asked, pointing near your middle... Swear to god— I thought I was going to jail for a minute. So help me, if this conversation was leading to a Planned Parenthood antibiotics situation, some sh*t was going to go down. But that’s not what happened. Instead, you pointed, with big eyes and open mouth, at your belly, close to an irregular mole that had grown larger at the edges since the last time I saw it. But even that wasn’t what you meant. You were index-fingering a flat piece of brown you’d squished before waking me. I pinched it off your belly, freed it from the curly gray hairs, and wiped it on the sink counter. Half a leg smeared into the porcelain was the tell. It’s a tick, I said. Just stay covered and vigilant. You’ll be fine. You teared up and thanked me, I called you an idiot. Later that day, you chewed the bulb of a daisy on a nature walk, kept insisting the patch of green were ramps, despite the signs. You spat out dirt and chunks of fibrous husk the whole way back to the cabin— and the three of us laughed and laughed and laughed.