Suzie Homemaker

I've never been the Suzie Homemaker type.

When I was little, my mother tried to teach me how to cook. To say it was a disaster would be an understatement - the fire department was quite familiar with our house. So we moved on to sewing, knitting, and a little darning. I lacked the knack, and eventually she grew tired of trying.

It wasn't until much later, when I fell in love, that the art of home economics seemed to become important. We dated for a long time. Eventually we got married and bought a house together. But a house only becomes a home if you make it one. I bought three thick recipe books and experimented until I had a few tried-and-true meals that always made him smile.

And that was what cemented it for me: watching him take a bite of lasagna and close those gorgeous blue eyes in appreciation. It brought a flush to my cheeks and a warmth to my belly that made up for the scorched pans in the trash.

For Thanksgiving, his mother came to visit. She was a little wary of me, but I sat across from her, speaking slowly and clearly as she dug into warm apple cobbler, and eventually I won her over. She confided that she'd never expected to get a real live daughter-in-law. "My son is... a little strange," she said awkwardly.

"I like him that way, Mrs. Grissom," I replied, smiling.

"I remember when he was a boy, he used to tell me he liked science more than he liked people," she said. "Does that ever worry you?"

Truth is, it didn't. Science never fascinated him as much as the smooth plane of my back did.

On Christmas that year, he told me he had a present for me that I'd never forget. He'd planned it for weeks, and it was the perfect gift.

But my gift trumped his, when I presented him with the positive pregnancy test results. His eyes glowed softly, and the next day he came home carrying several cans of light blue paint.

"We don't know what it'll be yet," I reminded him, as he painted the spare room late into the evening. "We won't know for weeks."

"It's a boy," he said fervently, leaning over to kiss me again. "I'm sure of it. We should pick out a name."

"I'm not going to give birth for eight more months, honey, we have time," I laughed, enjoying the warmth radiating off of him.

"How about Mitchum? My grandfather on my mom's side was named Mitchum. Good man."

"Mitchum Grissom?" I asked, giving him an incredulous look.

He raised an eyebrow. "It's got character," he said with a mock huff, turning his back to signal that the discussion was over. It wasn't over, but I laughed and let him think it was.

It wasn't until our son was born, many months later, that I told him I wanted to name him Gilbert.

"Gilbert Jr.?" he asked, his face falling. "Sweetie, Gilbert is a terrible name. I've always hated it. And most of the juniors I know feel like they didn't get their own identity."

"Then we'll give him a different middle name," I said softly, cradling our baby boy in my arms. "Please?"

"I don't know." he hedged, so I pulled out the big guns.

"It's my favorite name," I whispered.

Two days later, we brought little Gil home from the hospital.

I won't lie, there were days when I thought we might have settled our son's fate with that name. Something told me that if his name were Michael, or Steven, or John. he might not have spent every day alone. But maybe it was in his blood, I decided, watching him as he picked up a flower with a bee on it, and stared at it intently. Like father, like son.

It wasn't until he was much older that I started to worry about him in earnest. He never dated in high school, never had a steady in college. If not for a few magazines I found under his bed, I might have suspected he wasn't attracted to women.

So when, decades later, he finally invited me to his home to meet his girlfriend, I couldn't help being a little wary. She was a good deal younger than him (perhaps that preference, too, was in his blood) and I worried that, after so many years of solitude, his heart was all the more fragile.

We sat at the kitchen table, the three of us. Gil looked at both of us nervously, then jumped up, darting into the kitchen. The timer for the apple pie must have rung.

"He's a great cook," Sara said, after catching my eye. "You taught him well."

"I did the best I could," I replied modestly, being sure to speak slowly and clearly. "I have to admit, I'd given up on the idea of him finding someone. He's. he's a little strange."

"I know," she grinned, taking a sip of tea. "I like him that way."