Glances

You are eight years old when you notice it for the first time--the way your father looks at your mother like she is the only person in the room. She blushes and looks down. Your father wears a wicked smile, like he has a delicious secret. You feel as if you are intruding on a personal moment. You stand and slip out of the room.

That night, your mother comes into your room to tuck you into bed. For the first time, you are uncomfortable with her affection. You say, "I can take care of myself."

Your mother smiles at you. "You are so much like your father," she laughs fondly.

You turn off the light, wondering why that amuses her so much.

You are twelve years old when you realize you've never heard your father declare his feelings for your mother. You watch them carefully, wondering if there is something wrong. Your father covers your mother's hand and smiles at her. She blushes and looks away. So do you.

Your mother notices how quiet you've been all evening. She asks you if you are all right.

"I'm fine," you say seriously.

Your mother shakes her head. "You are so much like your father," she says, rolling her eyes.

You cock your head to the side and ponder this statement.

You are sixteen years old when you watch your mother say goodbye to your father for the last time. The sickness that has been eating at him for years is finally claiming his body. You watch as your father looks at your mother intently. She blushes, but does not look away. He smiles in amusement, as if his secret has been revealed. She covers his hand with her own, and he takes his final breath.

Two days later, you refuse to attend services with your mother. "God wasn't there for me; why should I be there for Him?" you ask belligerently.

Your mother throws her hands in the air. "You are so much like your father!" she says in frustration.

It is the first time those words cause you to burst into tears.

You are twenty years old when you meet the man you want to marry. You bring him home to meet your mother. She asks you how you are so certain you want to spend the rest of your life with this man.

You feel a large, rough hand gently cover your own. You glance over at your fiancé. His rich brown eyes bore into yours, as if you are the only person in the room. You blush and look down. When you look back up, he wears a wicked smile, as if he has a delicious secret. You turn to your mother.

"Because he looks at me the same way Dad always looked at you," you say softly.

Tears spring to your mother's eyes. She cups your cheek with her hand. "You are so much like your father," she whispers lovingly.

You realize that is not such a bad thing after all.