So I deleted your numbers off my speed dial. I took down your pictures. It was an in-the-moment thing.

I’m calm now, seeing things objectively, yet still undecided.

Part of me wants to believe we can still be friends. That we can still hang out without me depending on you for anything. But I’m not like that, and I don’t stay friends with those on whom I can’t depend.

I cried, not only because you weren’t there when I needed you, not only because you had a responsibility to my friends as well, but because I never allow those who hurt me so much to be a part of my life. Our friendship may be lost, and this is what upsets me the most. Perhaps it hurts so much because you were so important to me. I don’t want to lose that, but I’ll never forget what you did and I’ll never trust you again.

And if I can forgive you, you’ll know that I truly love you.

It’s Friday. Pizza day. At Louise’s house, the parents don’t feel like cooking, and the kids get a treat.

The slices are out. The salad’s in the serving bowl. Everyone has an accommodating fork, napkin, and slice. I see Eric move a hand to his face in the corner of my eye, and assume that he’s started eating.

As the guest, this means I’m allowed to eat too. I take a bite out of my slice, but before I can even chew, I realize that Eric was just scratching his beard. With a smile on his face, he says “Don’t forget about grace, Jeff”.

It’s a double whammy.

It reminded me of something that happened when I was a teenager. Matt was over. Pizza night. As the guest, Matt got the first slice. He waited while the rest were being handed out, but my dad, without any sense of formality, took a bite as soon as he had one. Neither of my parents noticed, but there was a startled look on Matt’s face. He quickly closed his eyes, held a fist to his face (not a clenched one, but as if holding the beads of a Rosary), and said a prayer in his head.

I always imagined that it went, “ThankyouGodforthispizzaandformygracioushosts”, because he was done so quickly.

It made me wonder, what was in that look? What do those who ask thanks of their meal think of those who don’t? What do Christians think of those who don’t say grace? What do Muslims think of those who don’t fast? Are we unappreciative? Do we take our food for granted?

Eric’s tone is kind though, not condescending or judgmental, as if to say, “We only ask you to do this for the sake of our kids”.

Louise asks Sarah if she’d like to say grace. She sings a song that bears a striking — excuse the pun — resemblance to the melody of the Westminster quarters (along with choreography).

Hark to the chimes (arms held upwards and open)
Come bow your head (hands together in prayer)
We thank thee lord (arms upward again)
For this good bread (hands together again)

But as a seven-year-old, Sarah doesn’t know the right words. She says “heart” instead of “hark”. “You” instead of “thee”.

No one mentions it though. Not everyone is perfect. One can be forgiven.

Even me, I hope.

Under the guise of some trouble with her iPod, the old second generation clunker that I gave her last Christmas, my mother calls me on Saturday, close to midnight.

I can hear the congestion in her nose. She’s been crying. It gets lonely when you’re alone in the house on a Saturday night, the same house you’ve inhabited for the last 15 years of your life with your façade of a family, and the façade is torn down.

Our last phone-call didn’t end well. She wanted to know why we weren’t as close as other sons with their mothers.

“How can we be close”, I told her, “You go crazy every time I tell you something important. You’re stifling. Overprotective. Growing up, it made my life a nightmare.” For the first time in my life, I revealed a glimpse of how she had wronged me, not even bringing up the memories of mental abuse I keep buried in my chest for times like this, like an ember ready to be stoked into a fire.

“It’s because you’re my only son, and the only thing I have left now.” Saying these words, sparking a sudden realization, makes her sob more. She tells me that she wants to start over. It’s never too late. She wants to be stronger so she can survive this divorce, and close to me so she’s isn’t left without an emotional bond.

Unfortunately, forgiveness isn’t something that’s in my power. I have no pity for her. Knowing how vulnerable, weak, and depressed she is just a reminder of my own childhood, and only time has a chance at edulcorating the bitter taste in my mouth.

So she calls me on Saturday, pretending to need some help with her iPod, to see if I’ve forgiven her yet. If I ignore her, I become as terrible a person as she was. I only wish I could believe that she didn’t deserve it.

But I can’t.