Together at Last

1975—On a warm summer evening, Lisa Coffaro and her sister Gail walk into a 7-11, just minutes away from their home in Redwood City, California. Behind the counter, a young man with big brown Hollywood hair wears a name tag that says: Eric. Both girls buy an It’s It ice cream sandwich, and as he’s ringing them up, Eric looks at Gail with sly eyes and a smile and asks: “It’s It?” The two teenage girls pay and walk away laughing, both saying that the corny guy behind register was the other one's type.

Eric Hagnéré just turned 50 and he’s still got Hollywood hair. He married Gail, who is now 49; twice. They live together in Gail’s childhood home—now their family home, just minutes away from the 7-11 where they met. They have two adult sons: Fabian Hagnéré, and myself.

Dad reversed into the driveway with his white Mitsubishi SUV. He walked inside, set down his keys and flopped onto a leather chair in the living room. He wore a polo shirt and jeans, and had already kicked off his shoes. He huffed loudly about traffic and slumped back into his chair like a boxer in his 9^th round. Mom sat across from him at the ledge of the fireplace, wearing baggy khakis and a sweater. She was eating leftover gnocchi out of a Tupperware container.

“He’s like an old baseball glove,” said mom, “Worn-out and comfy.”

Dad looked back at her with those sly eyes.

“He just feels like home,” she said. “There’s nobody else for me, even when he dies.”

Mom is only two years younger than Dad, but she doesn’t smoke and gets more sleep. Dad seems healthy but likes red meat, red wine and menthol cigarettes. He works in concrete demolition and stays up late watching TV in the den. More often than not, he sleeps there, while mom sleeps alone upstairs. I asked them about that.

“I snore,” said Dad. “Your mom doesn’t like it.”

“It’s unfortunate that he snores,” said Mom. “I’d love to sleep with him, but I do need my beauty rest.”

Dad looked at me dead-on and said: “If she’s not happy, I’m not happy.”

Dad calls the den “the man room.” He’s got a private stash of wine and cookies in there, so nobody else is really allowed to come in—except Mom. They hang out in there and watch movies on the weekends. Dad’s crazy about wine but he doesn’t ever get drunk.

Every Sunday there is a big family dinner at the table, but other than that it’s an open kitchen. Mom is always cooking though. She makes everything from scratch and has a lot more than a knack in the kitchen. The smells of fresh baked breads and cooked vegetables from our own garden are always wafting about the kitchen. She also makes great cinnamon rolls, pizza, baked pasta dishes, desserts and just about everything else. Needless to say, we’re all a little bit overweight, but we eat very well.

“I love a good cook,” said Dad, as he peered over to the container of gnocchi in Mom’s hands. “She has all the qualities of a nurturing wife.”

“Am I earning any points honey,” he asked.

“You’re not saying anything we don’t already know, said Mom.

My parents are both home bodies. They never go on vacations and live a pretty frugal existence, but they still manage to spend about $1000 a month on groceries. They hate spending money. They’re just happy family people.

“She knows what I feel before I tell her, and I love the way she loves her children, said Dad. “She helps me be a better me, and she believes in me. She even makes my lunch every day.”

Mom started shaking her head.

“Between each other we have the core of true love, but there’s no free lunch,” Mom said. “There’s a lot of work involved.”

“It’s true,” said Dad. “Our commitment to communication took many years to learn, and we’re still learning.”

My parents were inseparable for 3 years after they first met. They went to different high schools, but were high school sweethearts nonetheless. My mom went on to beauty school and my dad ended up in carpentry. I was born in September of 1979, just two weeks after my mom’s 21^st birthday. They got married when I was 10-months old.

Frustration and cold feet led my parents to separation more than once before my brother was born, but my mom figured that a second child would probably seal the deal. My dad was less responsible. He started his family life prematurely and couldn’t handle it. My mom wanted kids right away. In 1985, shortly after my brother was born, they divorced.

“He thought he was too good looking to be married; to waste it all on one woman,” said Mom, still eating that gnocchi. “He wanted to show himself the world.”

Within 5 years, Dad re-married and moved to Florida, then Tennessee, then Arizona. Mom re-married too, and had a daughter with her new husband. My dad got “fixed” after my brother was born. Thanks Dad.

Both of their second marriages started falling apart within a few years, and by 1995, my parents were both back in Redwood City to be with their respective families. They opened up to each other right away. It was like they were meeting all over again, except for they had two children together. There was maturity. There was time. There was true love.

“Sometimes we think we’re looking for something, when it’s right in front of us,” Dad said, sitting up in his leather chair. “But we’re just not seeing it.”

Mom looked over to him and waved.

They spent 10 years re-connecting and learning each others boundaries; developing a perfect balance of respect, attention and space. Both were done looking for something better. They were either going to make it work, or they were going to die single. So they made it work. Now they feel that there is nothing better.

They got married again last year. They just bought their first house together.

“I always wanted my family back,” said Dad, as he stood-up out of his chair. “Our paths have separated and come back together.”

He crept over to Mom. She stood-up from the ledge of the fireplace and hugged her husband. They held each other and at the same time said: “Together at last.”