How My Parents Fell For My Husband

by Amy Sohn

Jack looked at the heap of vegetables on top of the lettuce—carrots, tomatoes, celery, and cucumbers. It was a Jewish salad, the kind I’d grown up eating, with everything thrown in. It wasn’t a gourmet salad, the kind they served at restaurants with just lettuce pre-dressed with vinaigrette.

Our cousins came over and Jack set out the lasagna, to oohs and aahs. I didn’t see the salad and when I looked up at him he was at the kitchen counter, with the garbage drawer pulled out, gathering the carrots, tomatoes, celery, and cucumbers and tossing them into the trash.

I glanced over at my mom. She was squinting at Jack, her mouth in a tight, thin line.

Our last morning in the country, I woke up before Jack. When I walked into the kitchen, my dad was sitting at the counter, already on his third cup of coffee. “So Jack’s pretty amazing, isn’t he?” I said, filling a mug.

“I know this might not be what you want to hear,” he started.