They more than certainly had that in them. They wanted me; but they did not need me. Together—though perhaps only together—they were fully formed.

They stayed on the road. Life went on as it had, from the thirties straight into the forties. They owned little—a bit of furniture, their clothes, no car. My father grew larger, lost more hair, smoked too much, remained a star in his selling work. They traveled to Kansas City for sales meetings. They came to New Orleans often and thought it could be a place to live. It had an open feel. He didn’t long for Atkins, though he managed a visit to his mother when he was nearby. He went hunting with the cousins, doted on his nieces and nephews. He gained stature at home. They all, except the mother, learned to like Edna—if not entirely, at least in the ways they liked certain surprising sides of themselves. She was too pretty and lively and irreverent not to be semi-accepted. One merely avoided certain subjects. It wasn’t hard. And he loved her, which was what mattered.

The war began. His brother went and so did two nephews. He had the heart murmur and did not go. It must’ve been odd for life to carry on in a normal way while the terrible fighting took place overseas. It might’ve been a thing he regretted—missing the chance to come back changed. Some abstract, un-uttered thought—something he may not have noticed—could’ve coursed through his mind, made him think of himself differently. As being less competent. Or just lucky. Or both.

What were their frustrations, my mother’s unspoken wishes? What did they say to each other in the car during all those traveling miles alone? He had become thirty-six, she was thirty-one. He must’ve become fully a “kind” of man now. An adult. A salesman with a wife. He affected few people beyond her and his customers; though affecting people would not be a part of what life meant to them. Did he “develop”? Feel more confident? Did this way of floating begin to seem old? Was there an extra dimension to their life where before there hadn’t been? Is it bad if there wasn’t?

It’s revealing—though perhaps only of oneself—to think of people in terms of what might’ve been better for them.