Free Pink Slip Party by Cara Lockwood

pauses and takes a shaky breath. Dad doesn’t even stop chewing.
    “Oh, I’ll just come out and say it.”
    We’re all (except Dad) waiting.
    “I got a job,” Mom squeals, clapping her hands together.
    The table sits in stunned silence, until Dad drops his fork on his plate. The stainless steel makes a high-pitched plunking sound on Mom’s good china.
    “What?” Dad says, shocked as the rest of us.
    “I got a job,” Mom repeats, this time more softly. She looks as if she’s losing her nerve.
    Kyle rallies first.
    “Hey — that’s great, Mrs. M. Really great.”
    Mom gives Kyle a grateful look.
    Meanwhile, the rest of the table is too stunned to say anything.
    My mom never had a job, not while I was alive. Todd told me that she’d tried going to cooking school to be a pastry chef before I was born, but Dad complained about having to watch Todd in the afternoons (after pre-school), and how he made enough money for Mom to stay home, and why did she want to cook for perfect strangers when the people who would appreciate her cooking the most would be forced to eat frozen TV dinners and be neglected while she was off at some fancy cooking school? Besides, Dad was not a big believer in education. He thought people who went to school to learn how to decorate their living rooms or paint were people too dumb to figure out how to do it themselves. He also subscribed to the theory that most of the professors at the community colleges were scam artists, out to make a quick buck.
    Mom eventually did drop out of the pastry classes when it was clear she was pregnant with me, and she said the morning sickness combined with the smell of dough was too much to take all at once. She had me nine months later, and settled into the habits of a resigned housewife. She never did give up her interest in cooking and baking, and was always threatening to open up her own catering business or go back to cooking school. Dad had not expressly forbidden it, but he has been known to make sexist remarks on occasion, like “my wife’s place is doing my laundry.” Mom always said he was kidding, but I was never sure.
    Mom looks to me for support. I am not sure I can give it to her — I am just too taken aback to think about anything except the fact that my mother — a fifty-five-year-old with no discernable job skills and only half her college credits — has gotten a job, while I am languishing in the unemployment lines.
    “Where?” I squeak.
    “Well, it’s one of those Web places.”
    “You mean dot-coms?” Todd says, speaking for the first time.
    If possible, Dad’s jaw drops a bit further.
    “You don’t even know how to work a computer, Doris,” says my dad.
    “I do so know how to work a computer,” Mom says. “I send email all the time.”
    This quiets Dad. In fact, it quiets the whole table.
    “That’s cool,” says Todd’s girlfriend Deena. “I worked for a dot-com. They’re a lot of fun.”
    “I’m very excited,” admits Mom to Deena. The two share a girlish giggle.
    Meanwhile, Dad is turning purple.
    “Don’t even start, Dennis,” Mom warns Dad. His head looks as if it might, seriously, explode. The vessels are popping out of the sides of his temples. “You know we need the money.”
    Dad pounds a fist on the table, causing the salt shaker to jump and then topple.
    “I thought we agreed not to discuss that.”
    “You agreed. I said that if we don’t do something, we’re going to lose the house.”
    “Mom,” whines Todd, who has always been deeply affected by arguments between my parents. For a full five years, from age ten to fifteen, he was certain they’d get divorced.
    “Todd, this has nothing to do with you. It is between your mother and me,” says Dad.
    Todd appears in danger of whimpering. I look at him through squinted eyes.
    “The truth is, kids,” Mom says, “Dad’s been reduced to working part time. We didn’t want to tell you because we know you have enough to worry about.”
    Mom