Mother was a diamond—hopelessly & beautifully flawed.
Through Foster’s Diner, I’d had the extended family I’d longed for, but I hadn’t known until it was too late to know them as such.
There had been numerous incarnations of Beth & Gerald Foster, but their final incarnation had been of themselves—the adopted grandparents I had loved for themselves.
That was why they had seemed so familiar, for I had, in a way, grown up with them, even as they had watched me grow up.
I never asked why they had never voiced a desire to see Caitlin. Maybe it was just that I was so much like their beloved, adopted son.
I wish I would have been able to encapsulate those precious moments I had spent at the roadside diner, never knowing how precious they really were.
I’d never seen Mother struggle with anything before, but she struggled to fit the mold of the Mormon wife, pouring herself into it, but never quite jelling, for the molds were all the same.
Our living room resembled a room in one of the Mormon temples—white & delightsome—a microcosm of the celestial kingdom.
With the light reflecting off her glossy hair & radiant complexion, she looked like an angel. Yet, it was no marvel, for even Satan himself had been transformed into an angel of light.
I was 18 & the thought of moving into Maxwell Manor with Mother & David made me feel about 12 years old.