I overheard my father-in-law speaking French on the phone, and my heart shattered as his words revealed a jolting truth. My in-laws and husband had no clue I knew French. That very night, I booked tickets to the country my father-in-law was planning to discreetly visit.
Family isn’t supposed to feel like walking on eggshells. That’s what I keep telling myself every time I cross the perfectly manicured lawn of my in-laws’ colonial home. My mother-in-law Bessie’s roses are always pristine, much like her carefully curated facade of familial perfection. The thorns, though, remind me of her words, sharp and precise, always finding their mark.
I never expected it to be easy, marrying into my husband’s traditional family. They’re old money, old traditions, and old expectations.
But I never imagined it would be this hard either.
The diagnosis came three years into our marriage. After countless tests, failed treatments, and nights spent crying in my husband Jacob’s arms, we learned I couldn’t have children.
The doctors’ words echoed through sterile hospital corridors, but the real pain came later, in the suffocating silence of Sunday dinners at my in-laws’.
My father-in-law Arnold retreated further behind his newspaper and carefully measured words. He was cordial but kept his distance as if I were a carrier of the plague.
“Such a shame,” my mother-in-law would say during our weekly dinners, deliberately stirring her soup. “Did you hear about the Hendersons’ daughter? Three beautiful babies in four years. Such a blessing.”
Jacob would grip his fork tighter, knuckles white against the sterling silver. “Mom, please.”
“What? Can’t I share good news anymore?” She’d turn to Arnold. “Really, dear, Jacob’s becoming so sensitive lately.”
Arnold would simply nod, his eyes never leaving his plate.
Sometimes I used to wonder if he was actually reading that newspaper he hid behind, or if it was just another shield in this house full of carefully constructed barriers.
“Sarah’s youngest just started walking,” Bessie would announce, delicately cutting her pot roast. “Such a blessing to have four healthy grandchildren. Don’t you think, Arnie?”
“Indeed,” Arnold would reply from their little bar counter in the corner.
