Robert Frost Was Right—Part Five

Man, I need to find a way to wrap this up. The road of my life looks a lot like the image posted today. The months that have passed since my trip to Houston offer up so much material, that I've resolved myself to get through this—so that I can move on—on so many levels.

The big day came. Graduation was at 4 p.m. Diana really wanted to eat at Salt Grass, a steakhouse that was once famous for it's amazing beef, but has since become another corporate "Dolly." But she really wanted a filet mignon—she liked the way the words sounded when they fell off her tongue. So we made reservations for the whole damned clan.

We all filed into a long row near the stage—my parents and I and Diana's father and his pregnant wife, young son, father-in-law and mother. I hadn't seen him in over five years. And he looked good, as always. A tall drink of water with midnight blue eyes that were starting to show their age, the same smile that got me here in the first place, and curly black hair now peppered with gray.

It's hard for him to look at me these days. It has been since the day I walked out.

We were every jack-and-diane-young-turks-living-on-a-prayer song. Crazy in love from the moment we laid eyes on each other. But you don't hear what happens to Jack and Diane or Tommy and Gina 10 years later. It ain't pretty.

He let his insecurities get the best of him. I know that now. So here we are, sitting together at our only child's high school graduation. Everyone around us is making small talk, but we are silent. And reading each other's minds. Pride and nostalgia. Worry for her because we both know where she's headed.

He still loves me and looks at his new wife with regret. I still love him and look at my new husband with appreciation. It's lop-sided and sad. But make no mistake. My sympathy stops there. You reap what you sow.

Diana attends an inner-city school. Caucasians are the minority. Latinos and African-Americans fill most of the auditorium. Living in Houston gave me an education on people and culture—it seemed every country was represented here. My new home doesn't offer up much with regards to range on the color spectrum. So I have come to the sad conclusion that man must have a never-ending quest to find something to hate or belittle. Material up here is limited so the old codgers whisper things like "Whatcha expect—he's a Finn dontcha know?" or "Dem Norwegians ain't the sharpest tools in da shed."

As the procession of students passed us, I could see her down there in her royal blue cap and gown. She looked up and smiled and waved at me. She and I knew what it meant. She had saved that smile just for me.

Each student walked across the stage and accepted their diploma as family and friends cheered wildly. These beautiful young people were about to embark on life's journey—the real deal. And everyone in the room felt a little pride and worry whether it was their child or the person next to them.

Because few students planned to attend a university, some had plans to go to community or vocational colleges. But most were off to basic training. I found it hard to cheer—so many of these young people were displaced by Hurricane Katrina, and most of these kids had with no other way out. I feared for them and wished that our government had a conscience and prayed for those families whose children won't make it back.

And then they called her name. I shot to my feet, my cheeks stained with mascara and tears, and screamed "Nana-Banana!" I hadn't planned on saying that—but it just came out of my mouth. I knew she'd call me on it later. And she did.

I thought my heart was going to pop. I had waited for this moment her whole life.

So many images of her flashed before me. The red, wrinkled baby girl handed to me nearly 19 years ago. Her peaceful, round toddler face as she slept in her bed, cuddling her Dino—and the look on her face the first day of school when I said it was time for Dino to go away. The look in her eyes the morning I told her daddy and I were getting a divorce. Her puffy face, swelled up from tears as we sat silently in the restaurant the night before, holding on to my hand for dear life as she absorbed the brunt of what was growing in her belly. And her body language today as she stood up straight and walked across that stage like she owned it, took that diploma and turned to her family and smiled.

Good job, Diana. I love you. No matter what.

Robert Frost Was Right—Part Four

Prior to dinner, we stopped by Diana's apartment to drop off packages along with some things my mother had brought from home—the rocking chair she rocked her children and grandchildren in, dishes and embroidered towels handed down from her mother. This was our chance to get a look at Robert before we all sat down to dinner.

And there he was—shaggy, unkempt hair, baggy shorts and a faded t-shirt. I give her props. On the outside, he's adorable. Big brown eyes, broad shoulders and a devil-may-care-panty-peeling grin. She has all of my weaknesses when it comes to men. Which is why I could see right through him the minute he flashed that grin and said in his sweet, Southern drawl, "Hello, ma'am."

I had seen that smile before. A hundred times. And it got me in trouble—short-term, long-term, lifelong trouble—every time.

I had gone over the conversation I was going to have with Bob a million times in my head. It always ended with some Dirty Harry line that involved a blunt object, a waiting line and a willingness to serve time. But I sat through dinner and tried to keep the conversation light with a few pointed questions thrown in.

"What do you want to do when you grow up?" became "What are you interested in as a career?"

"How much bleach would it take to clean up your gene pool?" became "Tell me about your family."

Questions my mother never thought to disguise when interrogating the father of her first grandchild.

When the bill came, mom picked up the tab and excused herself and my dad. They left the three of us there and went back to the hotel—they'd had enough small talk and had made their quiet verdict. Bob was toast. Now I had my chance to really let Bob have it. But I remembered sitting in that swing not two days before, listening to my mother and Aunt Connie drone on about child-rearing, and how small I felt then. And the promise I made to Diana that night.

So, I listened. I listened to him tell me about his low-life brothers and drugged-up mama. I listened to him tell me about the day his daddy walked out like he was reciting an article from Readers Digest. He was three and never saw him much after that. He talked about the various relatives he'd lived with throughout his life and his high school years—never taking anything seriously, playing pranks, getting sent to detention and graduating simply because faculty just wanted him to leave.

It was all heart-breaking. Until I asked him why he broke all of my daughter's hangars and kicked her out of their apartment. And he just smiled. "I've got a bit of a temper," he had the nerve to say.

Like it was some f*cking badge of honor.

At that point, Diana was in tears. And I asked Bob to go find something to do for an hour. I needed to talk to my daughter.

As they stood outside and said there good-byes, I sat there and cried.

My hangars were never broken. But many other things were. And when he ran out of things to break, he came after me.

By the time she came back to the table, I had dried my tears. I scooted next to her and lay my head on her shoulder. "Diana. I love you. I hope you know that. And I'm saying this as a friend—because you are my best friend."

And she knew what was coming and started to cry again.

"Don't do this. Don't think you can fix him. Because you can't. And it will only get worse. I promise you. The decision is yours to make. But I know more than you think. And I hope you're listening to your heart."

And we sat there for an hour—in silence. I prayed for her. And she sat quietly and wept—and asked herself the same damned questions I asked myself 18 years ago.

And like me, she would have to learn her lesson the hard way.