The Grocery Store

By Olivia Brochu

I am holding two boxes of cereal, letting my three-year-old pick his favorite, while my one-year-old throws his pacifier to the ground and my five-year-old has already moved ahead to the granola bars and pop tarts. My white T-shirt is French tucked into my high waisted, light wash jeans. My unreasonably long hair is twisted into submission and held precariously in place by a giant claw clip. Still, some strands escape its grip. I look carefree, yet still somehow chic. At least I hope you think so.

You roll around the corner with one of those small carts for light shopping. You don’t need much. You’re only in town for the weekend. You have a lot of gray hair. This surprises me.

When you see me, I am making my baby giggle. You can tell I am a good mom.

We say hello. We both smile until it hurts. It seems like we should hug. We do, but it feels uncomfortable. We bring our shoulders together, steering our chests away from one another. We keep our hearts protected.

You ask me if I am free for coffee. 

I can only say yes if my children are not with me, and just like that, they disappear. I am not worried, though. I know they are ok.

The grocery store has a coffee shop in it, and for once I am, suddenly, shopping alone. I look at my watch. I have a little free time before my husband and kids will expect me.

We sit across from each other in hard, metal chairs. I sip my latte. “It’s so good to see you,” I say. “Tell me everything.”

And you do. You tell me how your mom is still a little crazy, but that only seems fair since your dad died a few months ago. You tell me you miss him. You tell me how amazing it is to become a father, but how much it sucks that your own father isn’t there to see it. You tell me that your wife is kicking ass at her job. You tell me that you don’t really care about your own job, but you also can’t think of anything else you’d rather be doing.

I say, “You seem really happy.”

You say, “Happy enough.”

I smile. That’s such a you thing to say.

I tell you about working with my family, and how it surprised me to end up there but how well it fits me and my life. I tell you about my three sons and how motherhood healed me of my own self obsession. I tell you that Greg is an amazing father.

“I’m sure he is,” you say.

We sit in silence then. We have never talked about my marriage, in all these years of seeing each other here and there and everywhere. 

My heart thumps heavy in my chest, but I force myself to say the thing I’ve always wanted to say. “I want you to know that I really never wanted to hurt you. We never wanted to hurt you. Loving him was separate from loving… and leaving you.”

You say nothing.

“You were so many of my firsts,” I say. “And I don’t regret that.”

“Neither do I,” you say.

I stand then and gather my few grocery bags from my unfinished chore, not nearly enough to feed my family.

I walk out into the blinding sunshine of the parking lot, my skin tingling from the harsh transition from cold AC to hot UV. I think to myself – it’s over now.

And so is this fantasy. Because, of course, this never really happens. We never run into each other at the grocery store. And we never say sorry or thank you or I see you – I remember you – I have known you for so long.

Instead, we avoid each other at the weddings of our mutual friends. I glance your way, but you never make eye contact, not even once. Like we never even knew each other. Like it never even mattered.

Olivia Brochu is a wife, mother, designer and writer living in Allentown, PA. Her work has been featured by Musings Publications.