The perennial unanswerable question

Two months later, Miranda's first serious relationship teetered on the brink. She came to me - not her mum - to talk, catching me in my home office, maybe because Alicja and Alina monopolised Rhea's attention today in their desire to plan and present a family lunch.

Office!

More a dusky man cave, off the garage, down the stairs in our home.

A space filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves of architecture and art.

As Miranda said she wanted to talk, I left my work desk and half a mug of lukewarm coffee. I sat next to her on the ageing sofa at the side of the room, where I sneaked quiet afternoon naps.

She was quick and to the point - a trait she acquired from Rhea.

"Dad, Dale's dropping out of college and going to Central America alongside some friends. He wants me to drop out and go with him!"

She inched closer to me on the sofa. I knew Miranda desired to finish college and work in the travel industry.

"What do you want to do?" I asked, aware I stroked my chin.

I squeezed her hand to support a release of her decision-making.

"I don't know," she faltered, "I want Dale and a career."

She rocked on the balls of her feet and rubbed her wrist.

"What have you and Dale talked about?"

I wanted her to talk. She needed a listener. I listened.

She fingered a trinket necklace, a special gift from Dale, glossy onyx glass seed beads.

"We agreed to break up," Miranda said as her voice trailed off.

She questioned, "How do I know? How do you choose when it's impossible to choose? What's a girl to do?"

Miranda had a glum face; her arms fell to her sides in disillusion.

She had caught me off guard.

The back of my hand wiped my mouth, though it was dry.

She posed the perennial, unanswerable relationship question: How do we know?

I baulked at responding because I would have had to unsheathe my entire heart.

I comforted and cuddled her instead.

She pressed, "You must know from experience, help me!"

Miranda's eyes watered and welled.

I gave her 'the there, now' pat on her thigh, right above her knee.

Then, there was a mini silence, side by side.

Miranda pried, "What about when you were younger? What did you do in a breakup? You never talk about the relationships you had before, Mum."

Here was my daughter, asking me about relationships when I kept putting off sorting out with myself since —

I knew some of my reasons. Unwritten generational maxims weighed me down. Boys and men kept their feelings locked inside. And polite guys don't kiss and tell. Furthermore, layers of Christian sexual ethics banged forever in the back of my head from Parson Dean's haranguing Sunday sermons that sex only belonged in marriage.

"I don't," I replied, "because you don't. It's respect for the other individual and the message we received as boys. We were told real men keep their emotions in."

I sucked the deep breaths.

"Plus, my Sunday school upbringing complicated for a long time how I thought I was supposed to think chastely about girls and sex or not think about girls at all because it was sinful."

Miranda gripped her wrist tightly.

She didn't pry further into my past relationships.

I mulled that I wasn't helping her as she sought genuine support.

My knees knocked together; I felt my stomach tighten. My current adult thinking — held complex.

Love can be messy. A minefield, but that doesn't mean it will ever explode. Love brings our vulnerabilities to the forefront. It builds on our best qualities; they are enhanced. Love can ripple forever within a memory, ensnared.

What would I say to my daughter?

I chose the empty, measured, dexterous, cliché phrases touted in a breakup.

I proffered variations of, "You will move on."

Then, "Trust yourself."

I gave her a soft pat on the back.

"Time heals," my banal finish.

She listened unconvinced as her eyes held a dullness. Her delicate lips quivered and became a tremble of her elfin chin.

I realised she believed she had to navigate these wretched depths alone.

I gulped hard and stood, pacing; I admitted, "I'm talking rubbish."

My daughter's mouth opened, stunned.

I unleashed my constrained spirit, "Love is messy; love has risks. The impact of love ripples and ricochets. I shared an apartment in Paris with Michael Marre's mum, Ruby. We had a relationship. She was terrifically sexy. I loved her."

No stops — until breathless.

Miranda's eyes agog, her mouth agape! Her mind was off, Dale. I sought her hand and lifted her onto her feet. We embraced as only family can when a heart needs comfort.

We commenced an honest, open conversation, drilling inside the words love and relationship. We shared emotions experienced - hers now and mine of the past. For a half-hour, we chatted until Rhea called us for Saturday lunch upstairs.

My daughter had made her decision. In talking to me, she self-confirmed.

It was tough.

Like everyone, Miranda had to live with the decisions made.

Her decision, Dale's decision. 

Her boyfriend's trip away, and Miranda wasn't going.

Break-up confirmed.

As we headed to lunch, Miranda spoke of another break-up.

"When we were on a work break, somehow a conversation with Michael Marre wended to family; maybe I mentioned the twins pinching my tops to wear without permission."

She smiled as she raised her hands in a pretend throttle — Alicja and Alina spread their wings and annoyed their elder sister.

Miranda continued, "Michael told me his mum was doing it tough. Her long-term de facto walked out."

I misstepped at the base of the stairs and grabbed the handrail.

"Dad, be careful!" exclaimed Miranda behind me.

"Inattention," I said, pausing.

My mind, though, was attentive to the shocking news.

While my conscience said details of a private conversation should remain confidential, my curiosity asked my daughter, "What happened?"

Miranda added, going up the stairs, "Michael told me he wasn't upset because he wasn't his real dad. His actual dad left years ago when he was five. He said he was more worried for his mum."

Ruby's past partners! Ruby without a guy! I couldn't picture it, yet it was reality. Ruby, I believed, could reset her life.

As an afterthought, on the landing, my daughter told me, "Michael is gay."

I tapped Miranda's forearm, "Enough, keep what Michael tells you to yourself."

We shared a thumbs up.

I let Miranda's comments slide while eating salad and quiche for lunch—life for Ruby and her son to sort, not me.

"Great quiche, you two," praised my eldest daughter to the twins.

Alicja and Alina exchanged a high-five.

Savouring another moreish mouthful, I silently agreed.

"When will you teach me," piped Phoebe to her mum.

"Next time," said Rhea, sitting back and enjoying family sharing.

Though I reflected, crunching a radish— Yes, I told Miranda about Ruby. 

I didn't share the Ruby set loose in my mind.