The Big House

So this year, my son started a new school, a private school that I love. Seems that during the first week of school, he and a kid, C, in his class hit it off. He invited my son to his birthday party, which was a deep-sea fishing trip. His dad is the founder and CEO of a successful business. And his mom is a stay-at-home-mom who dabbles in fashion and interior designing.

After the fishing trip, hubby came home to tell me that C's parents had actually split a few months earlier. Nothing shocking these days. They do the every-other-weekend thing and everything that goes along with it.

So, today, I dropped off my son at C's mom's house for the first time. We drove into the neighborhood and my daughter squealed at the sizes of the homes. (On a side note, I've been frustrated with my own housing situation. After being a home-owner twice, we are now renting and wanting to build. But the time and the money hasn't been right.)

"Can we live in a big house like this one day?" (I mean, we're talking mansions, okay?)

"I hope so," I said. "We do need the room."

When we got to C's house, his mother greeted me at the door and invited me in. She was perfectly pulled together. Lipstick, outfit, manicure. I was in tank top, jeans and flip flops. She's older than I am by about 20 years. She has a thick Russian accent and when she speaks, I have to lean in and watch her speak or else I get lost in the words. It's almost work to have a conversation with her, but not in a bad way.

She's actually refreshingly different. Her home is filled with huge colorful paintings and big vases stuffed with freshly picked flowers. Seems she's dabbled in gardening as well. She planted every plant in her vast, colorful garden, she said, pointing out of a window that ran the entire length of the living room.

"Have a seat," she said and pulled out a chair. From where I sat, I could see the sparkling clean pool. So serene. "Your house is beautiful," I said.

She had designed it, and lived there for 15 years along with her husband and child, who I had been told was adopted. My daughter and 3-year-old had come along for the ride, but they had run off into a play room in the back.

She gave me the short of it. She and her (soon-to-be-ex) husband had married overseas, adopted a child and moved to the states to start their business. (He is American.) And then she stopped in mid-sentence and looked down at her hands as if studying her perfectly polished fingernails.

"You know, C has been having a very hard time and I am so glad he and your son are friends," she said.

I smiled and nodded. She paused. I saw her eyes well up with tears and finally, she said "My husband left me for other woman. I got the papers on my 50th birthday you know."

Our eyes were already locked, and I just said to her "I'm so sorry."

She told me about the month, the day, her world fell apart. Sometime back in May. "C did not know he was adopted until Mr. B (she calls him refers to her ex as 'Mr.', almost as if out of spite) told him last month. That was right after I got the papers."

So what she had just told me was that C found out his parents were divorcing and that he was adopted all in the same month. All in May. Poor baby.

She left the table briefly and returned with five multi-colored photo albums. She showed me the happy days of her life--the day she and her husband opened their business (there she was, about 10 years younger, at the ribbon-cutting ceremony) and the day they brought C home from overseas. His first birthday (the theme was balloons and bears) and his first Christmas; he was almost lost beneath the pile of colorfully wrapped gifts.

Such happy memories, but here she was, falling apart.

The kids ran back into the room and anounced that "E peed on the floor."

Oh, what timing. Leave it to Mr. E. He had wet his pants and it ended up all over the marble floor. C's mother quickly dried her eyes and closed the final album I had in front of me. "It's OK," she said. "Your children so beautiful. All same ages. All growing up with mom and dad together."

Before I left, I told her that I hoped we could sit and chat again. She looked hopeful. "I have no family here," she told me. "That would be so nice."

As we drove out of that neighborhood, the mansions looked a little smaller, and a little less inviting. I wanted my blue-collar husband and our blue-collar house more than ever. (One day, we'll get the big house and I know it's right around the corner."

But like I told hubby "I don't want a big house without you."

Anyway, I hope to see C's mom again. Maybe for coffee one day.