Free The Break-Up Diet: A Memoir by Annette Fix Page B

Tammy's comment completely while I zoned out. “I'm sorry, what did you say?”
    “I said you should talk to Karen. She's not here today, but she's writing a children's book about a homeschooled girl. You two should get together.”
    “Sure. I'd like to meet her sometime.” The statement wasn't at all untrue. I enjoyed talking about the craft to anyone who was interested.
    “So, what teaching method are you using?” Laura, a slim blonde in a blue tracksuit, handed a bag of Cheerios to her three-year-old, then turned to study my face for an answer.
    “Method?” I shifted from one foot to the other. I wasn't sure how much method there was in handing Josh a stack of textbooks and threatening him with lethal injection if he didn't study them.
    “Charlotte Mason? Montessori? Waldorf? Unschooling?” Laura looked at me like I truly had no idea what I was doing.
    “Have a seat,” Glory said.
    The moms along one bench scooted over to make room for me. Then the conversation turned to an interesting debate over teaching principles and techniques. I was glad to have the focus off my personal life. I sat, listening intently, and cast my eyes over to the group of kids assembling around Josh.
    He had reclaimed his sports bag and revealed the baseball treasures to the rest of the kids. Soon, a haphazard team formed a tight infield and outfield between the shady trees. I watched as Glory's oldest son tossed a gentle underhand pitch to Laura's seven-year-old daughter. Josh, on his knees beside her, helped her swing the bat. There were calls of encouragement all around, and three girls who decided to play cheerleader on the sidelines. Twin boys ran after the ball when the girl took a swing and missed.
    It was good to see Josh interacting with something positive. There were no cliques. No age divisions. No pressures to have designer clothes. Just kids playing together.
    Socialization. That was the big argument I'd heard against homeschooling. But it felt like a healthy environment—for both of us.

    land shark on the loose
    Christmas Eve
Monday, December 24

    Candy bars, batteries, cologne, toothbrush—Josh's last minute stocking stuffers shifted in the bag as I turned my house key in the lock. I pushed the door open with one foot and felt along the wall for the light switch.
    Snap. The room flooded with light. I gasped at the sight of a Christmas massacre. Crimson smears from hand-dyed ornaments stained the beige carpet. Broken glass bulbs littered the floor. Severed wires snaked in pieces, snagged in the fibers of the rug. Pine needles and gnawed branches were scattered around the room.
    Buddy, with a wad of shiny tinsel hanging from the corner of his mouth, sat in the middle of the mess, wagging his tail.
    Too stunned to yell, I stood surveying the damage. Everything from the middle of the Christmas tree to the bottom was completely stripped and destroyed. A few ornaments clung precariously to the top branches. The tree leaned at an awkward angle, held up by only the screws in the stand. The angel on top looked unsure whether to take flight or pray.
    “Bad dog! Go! Get on your bed!”
    I knelt to the floor and raked the frayed wires of the Christmas lights into a clump with my fingers. Buddy watched me from his cedar-filled pillow with that puppy look that wavers between “let's play” and “oh shit, I screwed up.”
    “Don't even look at me right now!” My voice echoed in the room. Tears clouded my vision. I dropped to the floor on my hands and knees.
    Why did he have to leave me? Am I ever going to find someone who truly loves me enough to stay? Why does every holiday, every everything, good and bad, have to remind me of him? I blindly crawled along the carpet, collecting the broken glass in my hands.
    The front door swung open. “Mom?” Josh rushed over and crouched beside me, “Are you okay? What happened?”
    “Buddy—” I choked on a sob.
    “Don't cry, I'll help you clean up. It'll be okay,” Josh half-patted,