Enduring her nagging was humiliating. My mother had instigated the divorce, pushed the entire process. My father would have contentedly persevered, dwelling in our blue two-story with Claude and his extensive book collection. He once equated my mother to a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma—a sentiment shared before their separation, delivered with a blend of bitterness and admiration. Even amidst his animosity, there was an underlying respect.
I surmised he would have remained with her indefinitely, grappling with the enigma. He reveled in solving puzzles, a person enamored with theorems and theories. For him, X always had to equal something; it couldn't simply be X.
To me, my mother lacked mystery. She was my mother—always composed, perpetually sure of herself. She appeared a
