When I think back on that summer, I can still feel the knot of dread that lived in my stomach every day. My father had announced that he was getting remarried, and though I wanted to be happy for him, the truth was, I had serious doubts about the woman he had chosen.
Her name was Lydia, and she was everything my mother was not: polished, ambitious, loud, and determined to be the center of every room she walked into.
My parents had divorced when I was twelve, and I’d spent most of my teenage years trying to navigate the complicated space between them. My mother was quiet, dependable, and hardworking, the kind of woman who could make a holiday dinner out of scraps and still make everyone feel loved.
My father, on the other hand, was restless. He thrived on big gestures, new adventures, and constant change. I think that’s why their marriage crumbled—they wanted different things.
