Page 6 of The Art of Almost Losing It
Yes, I understand the irony.
After all, I know my last name.
My family won’t let me forget it.
Three hoursbefore I turn into that which I have been running from my entire life, I’m sitting in a family-style old-school red-sauce Italian restaurant.
If you didn’t know us you’d think “What a lovely family.” The mom, the dad, the five children—all a beautiful blend of them both, a testament to their love for each other. And then that other man, off to the side—who’s he? Maybe a lonely family friend? The new boyfriend of one of the girls, his frame too big for the rickety wooden chair, awkwardly meeting her parents for the first time?
My half sister Hannah finishes her story of the squeamish kid in her freshman nursing program to a flourish of laughter.
My stepfather beams at her with pride.
I used to think he loved me.
Then when I saw him with his real children and he looked at them with stars in his eyes, I realized…
I am grateful to have a family.
I clear my throat.
“Shall we—”
My mom stiffens then relaxes.
She doesn’t look at me.
I don’t need an explanation.
I have tics that I inherited from my father—less of a personality quirk and more of a thin sliver of glass under your skin.
The way I clear my throat.
The way I cut my veal parmesan with the back of the fork flat against my index finger.
The way I drop myOs when I say the wordknow.
The older I get the more I become him.
I know it disturbs my mom, though she tries to hide it.
I don’t know why they keep inviting me to these happy family functions.
“Shall we order? I’m paying, so get what you want,” I repeat.
“Yes!”
“Hell yeah!”
Max and Sean, the youngest of my half-siblings, pat me on the back.
“He always pays.” Bridget rolls her eyes. “And you always act like it’s the second coming.”
“G-dogg! Surf and turf, here we come.” Max pumps his fist.
“Boys.” Mom gives them a mock glare.
“I’m getting wine.”
