Part Thirty-five
"Sit down, Sydney," her father says, his voice quietly regretful.
"Why?" Sydney demands. "You want a reaction?" She shakes her head. "I'm tired, Dad. I'm tired of having to constantly defend my life, my husband, my choices to someone who doesn't even try to understand. You know what? I shouldn't have to defend anything to you."
"Sydney--"
"And to be honest, it's hard to say what I would react to, since it's hard to say what part of what you just said I find the most objectionable." In spite of her best efforts, her voice starts to rise, and tears come to her eyes. "You said that he made me into something, as if I have no mind of my own and can be made into anything anyone wants me to be. That must be the case, right, Dad, because there's no way that your daughter would willingly become-- how did you put it? A housekeeper and a nanny. There's no way in hell that any daughter of yours could possibly enjoy cutting her little girl's sandwiches into triangles and changing diapers and getting all dressed up to go to her husband's parties and--"
"And playing the trophy," her father spits out. Somewhere in the back of her mind, it occurs to Sydney that they should take this conversation somewhere else, or that Marguerite should take the children away. But everyone just sits there, frozen, as if they are watching a movie they can't stop and can't walk out on. "Having people compliment you on how pretty you look and congratulate your husband on doing such a good job choosing a wife. Don't you miss being congratulated for your own accomplishments, Sydney?"
"Wait a minute--" Michael tries to cut in angrily, but neither Sydney nor Jack even hears him.
"I don't need to be congratulated for anything," Sydney shoots back. "I need to know that Emily has a story read to her before her afternoon nap, and that Jack is picked up from school right at three o'clock, and that Grace is clean and dry and happy. I need to know that Emily likes her sandwiches cut into triangles and that Jack likes his just in half. I need to take Emily and Grace for a walk to the park every day after lunch, and I need to be there to wipe away tears and clean up messes and kiss my babies' ouchies and make them better. That's what I need, Dad. Maybe it's because of my compulsion to do everything myself, or maybe it's because you were never there when I was a kid, I don't know. But that's what I need, and that's what I want, and that's what makes me happy."
A long silence follows her words. "Are you done?" her father asks after a moment.
"Yeah, I guess I am," Sydney says, sinking weakly back down to her chair.
"Good," her father says, standing and tossing his napkin on the table. "Then I think it's best that I leave."
"Yeah, I think it's best that you do," Sydney agrees.
He says awkward goodbyes to Marguerite and Michael, smiles sadly at the children, and walks out.
Sydney can't help but wonder if it's the last time she'll ever see him.
