Of all the sordid stories that should never be told, I imagine that this would be one of them. The story of a mother—a step-mother, though I should specify that would hardly weigh-in per the eyes of the law—and her son. Not a rosy peach-cheeks type of tale. But a dark, dastardly, seedy type. That's how this story unfolds. Perhaps one might stow moral judgement and find it possible to forgive the dark sins that I committed while trapped in the madness of a broken heart.

It began in 1956. Now, that decade is termed as the 'Golden Era'. Perhaps that label holds a truth for some. It was an era marked by women of high-status dressing refined and able to support themselves while a whisp of change hung in the air. Oldsmobile, Schlitz, and the RCA Victor—color television for those of you who are far younger than I—were all the passion.

I was married then.

In my little town of Anaheim, California the summer was well underway with patrons flocking in droves to visit Disney Land, a children's dreamland that had opened the year before. You know that now but then it was so novel, wildly magical. If you've yet to journey the distance West, do so at least once before you die. The petrichor of the Eucalyptus and Redwoods is worth the trip alone.

It was a lovely June evening. The heat hadn't climbed too terribly high. Sunset in California is a sight to see, I tell you that much. I enjoyed the night air as I walked down Priscott Street. The summer breeze was warm with just a hint of a chill as the sun began to set, making the neighborhood feel alive, on the cusp of change.

Kent, my husband, was to meet me shortly. He was with friends for poker night, a tradition of theirs. He wasn't a very good poker player, but he enjoyed the game with the men nonetheless.

At that time our son was then away at college. Such a diligent boy whom I'm still quite proud of, he attended his summer semester in an effort to push through college in less than four years. He did succeed at that, I'll have you know, regardless of how much of a dire distraction I was.

Even now as I think of it I can feel the beauty of that night wrapped around me like silk, cool and inviting to the touch. If I close my eyes, I can feel the air, smell the citrus from a nearby cluster of orange and lemon trees. I can still hear the dogs barking and the creak of swings, the sound of my heels clicking as I walked. Rat-tat, rat-tat, rat-tat.

Perhaps I didn't fully appreciate our blessed life for what it was. I recall things with far greater fondness now but back then I believe I took it all for granted. I lived in a fantasy land such as the visitors who had flocked to Disney Land were able to do for a time.

And so I ventured up the turtle-like hill atop which our house sat—our happy home. I settled in, my purse on the white shelf capped with gold filigree knobs, my keys on the hook, my heels and pantyhose off—something I only did in the living room when Kent was away—and a cigarette. Oddly, of all the details I can recall the brand my husband smoked is not one.

A routine evening, really. I dusted a shelf, straightened a stack of magazines Kent had left skewed about the coffee table, and pulled a record for the player, setting the spindle to that lovely tune I enjoy no longer, A Tree in the Meadow.

An hour passed and I hardly noticed, there was always something to be done.

Then two.

I stitched a needle-work sampling, boasting ornate embroidered lettering around a ring of florals, a craft from my youth I still enjoyed. They made for lovely pillow toppings and gifts at Christmas. But as the time stumbled on I couldn't occupy myself much longer. Kent should have come home.

For a while, I paced before finally calling Luisa who lived next door to the Foxes, the home where Kent had gone for his game that night.

But she answered with her voice heavy with sleep.

"Oh, Luisa, I didn't mean to wake you, dear. But I'm worried."

She assured me it was all right.

I curled my finger through the spiral phone cord as I paced. "Have you seen Kent? He hasn't come home."

Luisa laughed it off, commenting that he had one too many beers and perhaps he was sleeping on the Foxes' couch.

But then three hours passed and my efforts to reach the Foxes' had led only to another sleepy conversation.

The truth had already taken hold, crawling up my throat like a grotesque coming through from the other side, bringing with it horrid news.

And I wished it weren't turning into a perverse reality but when there was a knock on the door instead of a key turning in the lock I knew Kent would never step through that door again.

The world died around me, shriveling up like an aged rose long past its prime.

Though I wish I could tell you more there's very little I recall of the following months. I do remember the funeral in pieces, and random times after in which the world sort of melted together in a sad twist of dull sounds and drab colors. Of all the places I never imagined to harbor depression, California lost many of its vibrant shades that night.

Oh, I managed with things such as keeping house. Empty nothings of a routine I was unwilling to part with. Things stayed in this strange muddle until our son, Calvin, felt it necessary to move back home.

I stood in the doorway of our kitchen, a cup of cold coffee in my hand, watching as he carried boxes of his belongings through the doorway and set them down in a line behind the couch.

And then all his belongings were indoors and he stood there, hands on his hips, the collar of his shirt mussed up on one side, sweat rings under his arms. He looked me over—brown eyes that glinted with a hint of ruby when the light struck just right—his expression filled with worry and a bit of pity.

"Mother?"

I smiled lazily, my cheeks feeling stiff. "Yes, dear?"

"Have you remembered to take your medicine?"

Looking over my shoulder I scanned the kitchen counter, there was no pill bottle there. "I believe I need to go and have them refilled."

He tisked me as if I were a child having spilled a glass of milk. "I was right to move home. You're in shreds."

"I am not."

He sighed and crossed his arms. "You haven't moved so much as a muscle since I first opened the door."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

And with that he crossed the room and took the coffee cup from my hands, having to move my fingers clear. He brushed past me, dumping the cup down the drain. My feet felt stiff as I turned to face him. It hadn't been long since he was here last but it felt so strangely different.

He walked to me, slowly, my eyes still focused on the sink even though his solid form now stood in the way.

"Mother?" Slowly, he lifted my face with a finger under my chin.

"Yes?"

"Are you going to say hello?"

"Oh . . . Hello, Calvin. How was your trip from Berkshire?"

He kissed me lightly on the nose before turning to dump the coffee from the carafe. "Rio, Mother. My college is in Rio."

"Yes, of course. Well, there's fresh coffee in the pot. Help yourself. I was just getting ready for bed."

"It's morning."

"Of course, of course. Good morning."

His frow furrowed with deep concern. “Maybe you do need some sleep. You seem… not yourself.”

I found my way to my room and settled on to the setae; the bed was piled high with clothes so thick I didn't believe it possible we even owned that many.

When I woke I found myself lying in my bed. A glass of water with two pills alongside sat on the nightstand. I shoved off the bed so quickly it made my head spin and my knees wobble.

"If you insist on me sleeping in our own bed you can at least get rid of it first." I slipped on my robe, tying it about my middle, before leaving the room.

"Kent? Did you hear me?" The house was silent. “Calvin?”

The table was clean, there were no boxes behind the couch. A wave of pure, stabbing, gut-wrenching grief came over me as I realized it was all a dream. A horrible, evil dream. Calvin wasn’t here, and neither was Kent. It was just me, alone. I clung to the back of the couch, sobbing into the chenille.

Something wrapped me up in bars of heat.

"Mother! I'm here, it's okay." Calvin turned me about and cradled me close.

I sobbed and shuddered against him. "Oh! I thought you were gone. I thought I was alone!"

He pulled his shirt free of his trousers and dabbed the hem to my eyes. "I'm here. It's not a dream. I transferred for the remainder of my year. I've been here for a week, now."

"A week! You just got in yesterday morning!"

Kissing my forehead, he held me tightly. "It's okay. I'm here to help you get better, Mother. Did you take your pills?"

I shook my head no against his chest. He rubbed his hands in circles over my back, rocking me slightly. "You'll get better, I promise."

He held me tight as he walked me to my room. "Here," he motioned to the bed, "sit down."

"Absolutely not. That's our bed and I'm not to lay in it." I made for the daybed, the covers smoothed out nice and neat.

With a hand slipped inside his pocket, he crossed the room, his brow creased with thought. "I think what you need, Mother, is a mix-up. New places, new people. Perhaps it's time we considered selling the home."

The idea was complete and utter balderdash.

He thrust the pills into my hand and gave me the glass of water. It tasted bitter and stale like a mineral lick.

"I will, if you don't start pulling through." He sat next to me on the bed, taking the glass from my hand. "You've not improved a bit since I've come home."

I nuzzled his neck, my skin lonely and cold. His heat warmed the tip of my nose.

He wrapped his arm around me, stroking along the curve of my elbow. "At least you need to see your friends. Mrs Hammels said you were really into the game of croquette. Does that sound like . . . well, not fun. But something okay?"

After a moment of breathing in his warmth, I nodded.

"Good, then."

He patted my arm and shifted to pull away but I grabbed onto him and held him close. "Not yet."

He chuckled a little and wrapped his arm around me again.

Perhaps my memory isn't what it used to be but that's how I recall that first day unfolding: a disconnected dream. The pain of losing my husband is strangely eclipsed by the gravity of the sins I committed next.