Making Room for Dad's New Girlfriend

When I read in the newspaper that the majority of widowers remarry within three years of their wives' deaths, I panicked. Surely the statistic wouldn't include my dad. He fell in love with my stylish, graceful mom, Linda, in college and cherished her until she died of cancer just before their 25th wedding anniversary.

More than three years have now passed. My dad did defy the statistic—he isn't remarried, but he has resumed dating after a quarter-century break. His mom called me to give me a report after meeting his new girlfriend. "We-ell, she's no Linda," she offered. Then, at Thanksgiving, I got the chance to judge for myself.

It turned out Pam and I already knew each other. She was the mother of two acquaintances of mine from high school, and I remembered her as seeming nice enough during orchestra rehearsals and class field trips. But now, meeting her as Dad's new girlfriend, I turned my full attention on her with an exacting eye.

Comparing people with my mom is easy and unfair—I know, because I'm often the victim of such comparisons, at least in my own mind. Terror of these contrasts drove me into a cleaning and cooking frenzy in preparation for the family Thanksgiving celebration at our house. I beat myself up over forgetting to dry-clean my mom's embroidered table runner and placemat set after the last family get-together. Hoping to hide the traces of leftover food, I flipped and reflipped each place mat numerous times. I tried to replicate my mom's famed cranberry bread, which calls for so much zested orange peel that I always end up zesting my knuckles in the process. My bread was passable, but noticeably inferior.

Even though I sympathized with Pam's plight as a newcomer, I became territorial and judgmental in her presence. I had thoughts so obviously ridiculous that my brain wouldn't permit them to pass without producing concurrent thoughts about how absurd and unfair it was for me to be thinking such things. And of someone my dad cared about, whom I hardly knew.

Still, I found myself tallying all the ways Pam didn't measure up against my mom. I judged her for ordering in a prepared turkey for her family's Thanksgiving. I judged her for referring to Strom Thurmond as "that Stom person" and not being able to quite remember who he or other prominent political figures were. I judged her for her taste in clothing and decorating—heavy on white, pastels, floral patterns and lace.