Chapter 8 - Daniel’s childhood
I confronted Daniel about the Sunday dinners.
He looked at me as though Robert had violated a family treaty.
“He told you that?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not relevant.”
“It seems extremely relevant.”
Daniel paced my living room.
We were meeting while Evan was at school.
Still living separately—Daniel at his brother’s apartment temporarily.
“It was the eighties and nineties.”
“You’re thirty-six, not eighty-six.”
He almost smiled.
Didn’t.
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Daniel.”
He sat.
Then:
“Mom hated waste.”
“Okay.”
“She cooked dinner. We ate it.”
“Okay.”
“If I didn’t like something, I stayed until I finished.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“An hour?”
“Sometimes.”
“Two?”
He looked away.
“Yes.”
“Did Robert intervene?”
“No.”
“Did your mother humiliate you?”
His jaw tightened.
“She called me picky.”
“Did she ever use animal jokes?”
Silence.
There.
“Daniel.”
“When I was ten, she put my plate on the floor once.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“I complained about pork chops. She said if I was going to behave like a dog, I could eat like one.”
I stared.
“Did she put dog food in it?”
“No.”
“Did she make you eat off the floor?”
“I didn’t.”
“What happened?”
“Dad eventually picked it up.”
“And you never thought her dog-bowl photo to you might be serious?”
Daniel looked furious now.
“At myself.”
Good.
“I thought she was repeating an old joke.”
“It wasn’t funny then.”
“I know.”
“Did you tell her that?”
“No.”
“Why?”
He looked at me.
“Because she would say I turned out fine.”
There.
I sat across from him.
“You did not turn out fine in that room.”
He flinched.
“I’m a good father.”
“Many days.”
“That’s cruel.”
“No. It’s specific.”
He stood.
“I love him.”
“I know.”
“I would never feed him dog food.”
“You watched your mother put it in front of him.”
“I froze.”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t the same as agreeing.”
“No.”
“Then stop talking like I did it.”
I breathed.
He was right about one thing.
Different verbs.
Margaret planned.
Margaret served.
Daniel knew enough to warn us and failed.
Daniel watched and stayed silent.
I retaliated physically.
Different.
Not equal.
Specific.
I said:
“You did not serve it.”
His shoulders dropped slightly.
“You did fail him.”
May you like
“Yes.”
That was the sentence we could build from.
