My Mom has come to town for a couple days. Da has graciously reserved a room for her in the hotel suites within his condo building. This morning I had to call Da for the suite number.

It’s nice to see that they’re still on speaking terms after all these years. After twenty nine years of being divorced from each other, things mellow out.

“Do you have Mom’s number? She called while I was in the midst of training yesterday and I could barely hear her over the hipster sales.”

“I do, let me get it.” I can hear him dig into his notes by the phone.

“Did you see her yesterday?”

“Yes. We had dinner.”

“How was it?”

“Fine.”

Dad fumbles with some papers, the “Fine” that comes across the line sounds curt. I’m sure it’s because he’s searching for a phone number in his shaggy, loose leaf analog notebook with minimal success. But I have to ask:

“Just ‘Fine’? …So, no hope of reconciliation?”

The noise he makes sounds like “Fuck you.” It’s mostly an F. No real harsh K sound.*

*in no way is this a dig towards my Mom. The curse came from my years of asking. I live in a constant hope that my life will mirror Kristy McNicols’ in Family and some sort of After School Special miracle will bring them back together. Snort.