After I went away to college, I visited my parents monthly at first, then less often. I was anxious to supplement[10] my dad’s 10th-grade education with the new ideas I was trying on. When he balked at my hypothetical question about marrying a black man, I bristled at his prejudice.[11] Over the months, my parents started to seem like distant relatives that I recognized, but didn’t know very well.
The next two years, I spun further out of my father’s orbit.[12] Shedding my gingham skirts, I bought bell-bottoms from the Army-Navy store and wore them with tie-dyed halter tops.[13] I began drinking coffee at the student union with a boy who was a published poet[14]. We shared glances in class and laughed at each other’s jokes. I couldn’t wait to be with him, even though I knew he had a wife.
When I visited home, I felt jittery[15] hiding my guilty romance from my father and mother and often invented excuses so I could rush back to school before the weekend was over. When my heart started pounding out of my chest, I knew I had to come clean with my parents.[16]
“I have something to tell you,” I said, the back of my throat tightening with tears. “I’m in love with someone... and he’s married,” I choked out[17].
The room was so still I could hear mockingbirds quarreling in the fruitless mulberry trees.[18] I looked at my dad, his knuckles swollen and cracked from farm work and his fingernails tipped with black crescents of motor oil.[19] He retreated[20] silently to his workshop, and I didn’t follow him.
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