The Best Ending

I arrive at my parents’ house late in the evening after a full Saturday of working my part-time retail job.  The house is dark, and I am greeted by a stack of dirty dishes by the kitchen sink.  My father’s snoring echoes from the end of the hallway, so I try to be as quiet as possible when I unload some Tupperware I borrowed.  The plastic containers aren't very clean, so I leave them in the sink.  On second glance, I notice that the stack is quite tall, so I roll up my sleeves and turn on the water.  When the soap is elbow-deep, I hear something rustling and notice my mother gazing at me from the shadows.  I wave with a soapy hand, and she laughs.  She creeps nearer, as if trying to determine if I am real or not. 

           

“Hi, Mom,” I whisper while rinsing some plastic lids.  She giggles in response and stares as I start on a yellow dish.  A small smile appears on her face and widens to a toothy grin. 

            

The collection of plastic containers I brought back is shrinking, and I decide to ignore the other dishes sitting by the sink.  “I’ll just finish these, then we can go watch TV or something,” I whisper to my vigilant mother.

            

I reach across the counter to grab the final piece of plastic and accidentally knock over my cardboard cup full of coffee I forgot was there.  The brown liquid spreads quickly, surrounding the stacks of dishes waiting by the sink and then spilling onto the floor after the flow is redirected by a nearby stack of phone books and directories.  

            

Son-of-a… I whisper. Simultaneously, my mother jumps back, repeating “Oh, oh, oh,” and pointing at the growing mess.  She stands still as I mop up the spillage with paper towels and the dishcloth. 

I decide to wash all the dishes since they are now covered in coffee anyway.  The remaining stacks are our family’s picnic dishes, and I ask my mother if she did something special for my father’s birthday. 

            

She nods and gives her latest standard reply: “He does a good job.”

            

Not expecting a detailed response, I move the conversation on by reminding her that she has a card for him.  She grins again, as if excited that she can give him something. 

            

As if on cue, my father emerges from the hallway.  He shakes his head.  “I thought I’d gotten your mom to bed,” he sighs. 

           

“She’s in a good mood tonight,” I explain, pulling the drain.

            

“It’s good,” my mother adds, smiling.

           

“Why?” my father asks her, joining us by the sink.

            

She just replies, “It’s good now.”

            

I relate her previous comments that he does a good job and that she is glad he is here now.

            

My father's brow furrows and he frowns in disbelief.  “Is it true?” he asks, his voice barely audible.

            

She nods, giggling like a schoolgirl, and replies in a high-pitched voice, “It’s good.”  Then she does something that I haven’t seen her do in at least three years: she reaches around my father’s midsection and hugs him. 

            

He gasps, momentarily surprised, and then wraps his arms around her shoulders, pulling her close.  In these few seconds, his demeanor transforms from stoic and worn down to blissful and hopeful.  

He cannot stop smiling; his face is absolutely radiant as, at least for a few precious seconds, his wife has returned to him.