19 Myths About Cheating by Randy Susan Meyers

Author:Randy Susan Meyers [Meyers, Randy Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Brooklyn Girl Books

14

Myth: Everyone has fantasies of cheating.

Truth: Nobody knows the extent of infidelity.

If we lie to spouses, why would we be honest

with statisticians?

* * *

Christmas morning, I shuffled in to light the tree as though heading to my execution. Henry, wrapped in his quilt, asleep on the couch, stirred and lifted his head.

“Hey, there.” I picked up his feet so I could sit and placed them on my lap. “Been waiting long?”

My baby shrugged. Presents spilled from under the tree. Adam, Molly and Henry’s stockings overflowed. Mine, always thin, this year had anorexia.

“Can we wake Daddy and Molly?”

“Of course. How did you wait this long?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Everyone seems so tired.”

“Tired doesn’t matter on Christmas. Wake them. I’ll make breakfast. By the time they come down, the matzo brei will be ready.”

As coffee brewed, I broke matzo into small pieces, soaked it in water, squeezed it out, and then beat in eggs. We loved this matzo dish: Crispy fried in butter. Sprinkled with salt. Dipped in sour cream. Adam allowed it twice a year. Christmas and Passover.

Breakfast done, a meal where Henry and I babbled to a silent Adam and Molly—we headed to the tree to open presents. Henry, probably up since five, bounced out of himself. Molly stayed as truculent as she could, while still eyeing the piles of boxes. I chattered like a crazed parrot. Adam worked at smiling.

“I’m giving everyone their stocking,” Henry said. “I’m first Santa.”

Adam and Molly sat like lumps.

“Hey, you’re always Santa. No fair. I’m next.” It seemed that I had to play sister as well as father and mother for poor Henry.

We dug into the bright red stockings, our names embroidered in green thread. Henry, Molly, and Mom were clumsily outlined, while Dad was so perfectly written that Adam’s stocking looked like it came from a catalog. We made them years ago, during a blizzardy December weekend, Adam, showing off his suturing skills.

“Yours is so skinny.” Henry handed me a limp stocking. “Not fair.”

“Mine is always the skinniest. You know that. Remember, I always get the most jewelry and the least tchotchkes.”

I wanted to reel back my words. There would be no diamonds under this tree.

Molly emptied her stocking fast, mumbling thanks, Mom, thanks, Dad, over her pen and mini-journal and nodding at every lip gloss, every pair of socks and the chocolate dreidel I threw in to show how non-Christian we were.

Henry ripped paper like a machine, piling up paperbacks, candy, and mittens, a virtual holiday machine moving nonstop till he hit the bottom of his stocking. “Thanks, everyone. Great stuff!”

“You’re welcome, champ,” Adam said.

Molly twirled a new pen.

Adam started on his respectably filled stocking, nodding curt thanks at me as he unwrapped handkerchiefs, Polo soap, and other manly items.

Calling my stocking skinny would be kind. I should have thought ahead and thrown some presents in for myself, so that Henry wouldn’t feel sad. I oohed over the one mini bottle of lavender scented lotion from Molly. When I saw the

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