Second Mom

“What’s your name?” I knew the question was audacious for someone going into third grade to ask an adult, even rude, but the court order that had dragged me away from my mother left me resentful and rebellious.  Besides, she wasn’t my mom. They could wash out my mouth with soap hundreds of times, but I still wouldn’t call her, ‘Mom.’ I braced for the inevitable pushback.

Even these days, divorce is hard on kids. Over sixty years ago, it was worse. Nobody knew precisely how a failed marriage impacted the children, and there were no support mechanisms in place to help the young ones who’d just had their world turned upside down.

The tall, dark-haired woman standing at the counter didn’t seem to mind my impertinent question. “Dolores.”

For some reason, I woke early that first day, leaving all my five siblings asleep, and I sat at the kitchen table while Dolores stood near the counter.

“Would you like some breakfast?” She turned and pulled a box of a crispy, chocolate-covered rice cereal from the cabinet. “How about this?”

Chocolate! For breakfast! To this day, I don’t know if she tried to gain my trust with that breakfast confection, but I’m inclined to think it was simple generosity.  Regardless, I didn’t hesitate. “OK.”

I ate in silence while she nursed a cup of coffee and gazed toward the picture window. I pushed my luck. “Dolores?”

She turned toward me. “Yes?”

“Are there many kids around here?”

She smiled. “Bunches.”

I always called her by name after that, and she never took umbrage at my liberty. We grew close as time passed. I’ve always been grateful to this kind and gentle woman who opened her home and her heart to four little strangers because of her love for my father.

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.