White Walls








She ate her breakfast at 6:30 that morning- yogurt, with hints of blueberry, strawberry and desperation. Her father would be coming at nine and he would be sure to disapprove of something. Last time, it had been the walls. “White, Sarah? Could you be any more banal?”
He constantly criticized her “sensible” lifestyle, her safe choices. He made it abundantly clear that he hated her banker husband, who had a large collection of ties and vintage windup Rolexes. Her father didn’t own a watch (to say nothing of a tie). He claimed that time
was for the unenlightened others, for those chained to desks and chairs. What could she have said to her classmates to explain how- after her mother left them- she was late to every gathering and ceremony?
Her father failed to acknowledge her indignation, believing her rebellious attitude to be a mere teenage phase. He was an artist, but he had not sold a single piece of work; they relied on thin envelopes of money from relatives, and a steady diet of thick macaroni cooked by Sarah late at night.
Her father reluctantly went to her wedding. He did not call to congratulate her on the secretarial job at the elementary school. Rather,
he called a week later to berate her on her clichéd life choices. Eventually he came to question her parenting.
He arrived at 11:07 that morning, wearing pajama pants, pale wisps of hair on top of a mottled head, paint stained on a ratty t-shirt.

“These walls still?” Sarah didn’t answer. “I’ll go say hi to the kids. Nice to see you.” Her father disappeared upstairs and an hour- or was it two?- later, her son came rushing into the kitchen, paint splattered and laughing.“Mom, mom,” Ben cried, “Grandpa says it’s ok to color outside the lines.” She looked again at the walls and began to cry.