Albondigas

My parents took me to Red Lobster to tell me they were getting a
divorce. Parents always take you to Red Lobster when they need to
tell you something awful and important, like failure. They figure if
they’re going to ruin a restaurant for you, it should be somewhere
lame, like Red Lobster or Olive Garden. We went to Red Lobster.
They couldn’t bring themselves to say anything. I was confused. My
brother, visiting, offered to tell me. He told me. I didn’t take it well.
To calm me down, he tried to read “Macavity: The Mystery Cat” to
me while I was throwing things. He ruined it. We were supposed to
ruin Red Lobster. I tried to break a toy school bus that he had given
me but it was too well made and solid wood so I gave up. It’s not
that I don’t want to be your mom, it’s that I don’t want to be anyone’s
mom. You can call me Phyllis and we can work on being friends. When
I get back. My father hired a housekeeper. She wasn’t a good cook
but she made a lot of Mexican food, which I liked. The first time
she made albondigas, my father thought it was matzo ball soup
made by a crazy person. He accused her of being a crazy person.
He raised his voice and gripped the edge of the table to keep his
hands down, so that was ruined for me as well. She should have left
but she didn’t, she stuck around until my future stepmother entered
the competition for the slot in the kitchen and won. They took me
to Red Lobster to let me know they were getting married. I had
popcorn shrimp and nodded along. My mother sent me a postcard
with a picture of the Eiffel Tower, telling me how great things were.
It had domestic postage.