On the playground

The volume on the playground, where I’d come to pick up my youngest son on the final day of school, was amped, definitely turned up to 11, in eager anticipation of the summer ahead and, before that, the annual last-day water fight at a nearby park. A mother of one my son’s classmates came up to me. “Is it true,” she asked, “that Julie kicked you out of your own apartment because she didn’t want to live with somebody who has a brain tumor?” The directness of her question took me aback, I knew her only casually and not as a close friend, and her knowledge of my situation and boldness in asking about it surprised me, as somebody who was essentially a stranger with a familiar face.
“Well, um,” I started to say, and the answer “the real answer is quite a bit more complicated than that” took shape in my mind. But then the thought occurred to me, what if the same woman asked Julie, “Is it true that Kevin left you for another woman?” how would Julie, who prefers this 'I am the victim, and not to blame' shorthand version of our story reply? “Well, um, the real answer is, um, more…” But my hesitation and stammering had gone on for too long, and she interpreted this as a positive reply to her question. “That’s what I thought, and it’s not really a surprise. Everybody knows she’s a bitch.” That was a statement I couldn’t disagree with, so I bade her a good summer and let her go off with this juicy new bit of half-confirmed half-true gossip.