July 25, Saturday
WARREN WAS supposed to take Josh to his ten o'clock game.
I know this because I put it in the shared custody calendar—the one the mediator suggested and the one Warren treats as more of a creative writing exercise than a binding commitment.
His name was right there in the Saturday slot, in the color I'd assigned him: orange, because the irony of a traffic color felt appropriate.
At nine-fifteen he hadn't confirmed. At nine-thirty I texted him. At nine-forty-five, Josh appeared in the kitchen in his uniform.
"He might be running late," Josh said.
"Where are your cleats?"
"He texted me. Said something came up."
"Something came up," I repeated, in the bright, even tone I have been developing since last November.
"It's probably work, Mom. He's really busy."
He was making excuses for a man who was happy to go to a FIFA World Cup game, but couldn't plug his own son's soccer game into a calendar.
"Cleats," I said. "Bag. Three minutes."
I made good time… until I didn't. When I saw blue lights in the rear-view mirror, I cursed silently and pulled over.
"Sorry, sweetie," I said to Josh. "Looks like we'll be a little late."
The officer was polite, which somehow made it worse.
He handed me the ticket with the kind, impartial manner of someone doing an unpleasant job without taking it personally, and I accepted it the same way, and then sat with my hands on the wheel for five seconds after he walked back to his cruiser, breathing through my nose.
My first speeding ticket in forty-two years.
"Mom," Josh said. "This is so embarrassing."
"I know," I said. "I'm sitting right here."
When we got to the field, Josh jogged toward his team without looking back. I found a spot in the bleachers, settled in, and took stock of myself for the first time since I'd rolled out of bed.
The assessment was not favorable. I was wearing the gray sweatshirt that has a bleach stain near the pocket that I keep forgetting about until I'm already out of the house.
My hair was in a ponytail of the functional, not intentional, variety.
My face was what professionals would describe as bare and what the rest of us would describe as regrettable.
Two women a row up caught my eye at the same moment, and in the microsecond before they rearranged their expressions into friendly neutrality, I caught it.
The look. The one that means They've heard about my situation and they feel bad but are glad it isn't them and also they're not sure how to talk to me now.
I'd been on the receiving end of that look at the neighborhood fireworks, at the school pickup line, at the dry cleaner where the owner's wife patted my hand for longer than was necessary.
I smiled. I waved. They waved back with the warmth of women who genuinely meant well and had absolutely no idea what to do with it.
If I was being honest, I felt sorry for me too.
The thought arrived without fanfare or self-pity. This was hard. There was no version of sitting in bleachers in a bleach-spotted sweatshirt with a speeding ticket in your pocket, watching your son make excuses for his father, that wasn't hard.
And heaven help me, at that moment, I wished I could step out of this life for a while.