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.