“Now remember Corinne, you are not to tell your Father where we were this weekend.” Those were the words Mom said to me as we drove home from another secret weekend away. Always, when we were close to home she would say those words. Every. Single. Time.

We would be speeding down the 10 freeway in Mom’s big silver Cadillac Coup de Ville. Our matching French luggage bouncing around in the back seat.

Mom had jet black hair, a dazzling smile and features that rivaled Sophia Loren. At least that is what people often said. She was petite, standing 5 feet tall in her bare feet. Her presence was enormous, just like the diamond wedding ring she wore on her hand.

Mom drove with both hands on the steering wheel, yet still managed to hold a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Rolling around on her lap, an Albuterol inhaler for her asthma

Copacabana by Barry Manilow played on the radio. The air conditioner blasted at the highest level with the coldest temperature. Even with the smoke, I could still smell the new car smell.

I sat right next to Mom as she drove. I was her protector, her guard, her secret keeper, her best girl and her best friend. I knew I had the power. The power to keep our family together or, as Mom would say, “tear us apart, blow us to Smithereens.”

With that knowledge, I placed my hand over my mouth and nodded in agreement. Our secret was safe.