Breaking Up With Mom Is Hard to Do
I didn’t know how bad things were until I did.
I first met my husband’s parents six weeks into our relationship. It was Christmas. Our friends turned into the trees along the road to get to a warmly lit home with two people waiting on the porch for their son. I stalled around the trunk of the rental car with sweaty hands before walking up to the front steps and introducing myself. That night, Martin helped place string lights on a bowing tree his father brought in from the outside and we all sat in the family room as the string lights changed colors. I stayed for a few days, feeling awkward, but welcomed in a way I hadn’t yet experienced.
We did the New York Times crossword all together and ate meals at the table. There were paintings in stacks against walls and tiny sculpted figures from Martin’s dabbling in sculpture. Martin’s mom spoke to me about books and Roxane Gay and school and Martin’s father watched Cube with us until he fell asleep in his armchair.
They all spoke kindly to each other. They talked about memories without pain. Martin’s parents knew about his hopes and dreams and passions.
On the train ride home, I ached. And for weeks after, I grieved a childhood I never had.
