Page 47 of Marriage (Red, White &) Blues

“What arekolaczki?”

“Oh, you’ll love them. They’re made with a cream cheese dough that allows them to bake up super flaky. I normally made my pastry filling from scratch, just like Grandma taught me, but given our time restraints, we’ll probably have to buy a readymade one.”

“Well, then never mind,” he teased.

“If you want to peel all the plumbs, we’ll need…”

“Readymade soundsgreat.”

“Somehow, I thought you’d change your mind.”

“Elephant in the room. What about your mom?” he asked. “We going to see her?”

“Probably not. I don’t know that I’m ready to talk to her yet. None of you understand. I gave up my dream schools, I gave up dream jobs because she didn’t want to be alone, and then she lies about her boyfriend?”

“Whoa—I get it. I just don’t want you to regret anything. We’ll try again next time.”

“Thank you for understanding.”

“Babe, you’re my wife. Your happiness is my priority.”

“Fair warning, you keep up this doting husband bit and I’ll be forced to reciprocate.” He showed me his dimple as I held my hand out to him. “Now, come on, let’s go make this rally our bitch.”

I hated these rallies. Today, we found ourselves in—I checked my itinerary—Nebraska. The car drove us to this huge plowed field, where a stage had been erected. As the car drove us around to the back of the stage where they’d set up the security area, I saw food vendors and merch vendors. People who’d probably been waiting in line for hours filed in wearing flag shirts and flying American flags. They acted like this was a rock concert rather than a political rally.

Did I say I hated rallies? If I didn’t yet… Ihatedrallies.

While Brock spoke to the most important potential voters, i.e., the ones with the most money to donate to his campaign, Emily and the kids standing silently behind him for support, Blake and I were tasked with making nice with the people Brock wouldn’t be caught dead interacting with. We shook hands, took photos holding babies and I got my butt pinched too many times by drunken men who stunk like beer, with roaming hands. The whole time I kept a smile on my face as I urged them to vote for Brock.Ugh!

Friday couldn’t get here soon enough.

Finally, at the tail end of a very long week, and with a sore bottom, we made it to Michigan.

When we disembarked the plane, I was met with a voicemail from my mother. Instead of calling back, I responded with a quick text.

Me:Can’t talk now. Been busy. Hope you and Carl are well. I’ll call when I’m able.

That would just have to do because I had no idea what to say to her now. She spent the previous year growing away from me and I’d spent the remaining time making sure it stuck. I found the idea of calling around for insurance quotes more appealing than talking to my mother. Good thing our schedule kept us busy.

Rather than stay in a hotel, I took my husband home. Don’t get me wrong, we checked into the hotel like a good little Blake and Gloria, but I wanted him to see where I’d grown up. My home, or what used to be my home before this whole Vermont adventure. But as stupid as this sounded, I wanted my husband to meet my dad. My dad still lived in the walls of that house. In the yard. In the very foundation.

Blake rented us a car to get us there—I mean, if you called a Porsche Cayenne a “car”—seeing as my Outback still sat parked in the garage.

Turning into the driveway, it felt like stepping into a different world. “I love this,” he said. “I can picture you running around the front yard with your curls bouncing as you played.”

“You aren’t repulsed by our meager dwelling?”

“I know you aren’t being serious.”

“No,” I said, smiling at him. “I’m not being serious.”

I showed him around the house. Blake stopped to take in all the pictures on the walls. “This was my dad.” I pointed out a prominent picture of the first man I’d loved.Hewould’ve loved Blake.

“Somehow, I expected him to have red hair.”

My father had brown hair.

“Don’t be disappointed,” I said, “but my mom has brown hair too. I get this”—I held up a lock of my hair—“from my Grandma Brianne.” I walked him over to a picture of my mom’s mom hanging on the wall. “And this”—I dragged him a bit farther down the wall—“is my Grandma Maria. She’s who taught me to cook. Grandma Brianne died when I was little. Grandma Maria moved back to her little town in Poland after my dad died. I was going to visit her when I went to Europe, but I got sidetracked by a devastatingly handsome Vermont man.”

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