“Why did you marry someone you barely knew?” my father asks, and there it is, off and running.
“Your father’s right, Eleanor. I don’t even know . . . ” My mother is livid. I can hear it in her voice.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” I say.
“Forget telling us!” she says. “What were you thinking? How long had you known this man?”
“Long enough to know that he was the love of my life,” I say, defensively.
They are silent. I can tell my mom wants to say something.
“Just go ahead,” I say.
“I knew your father for four years before I agreed to even go on a date with him, Eleanor. We dated for another five before we got married. You can’t possibly know enough about a person after a few months.”
“It was six months. I met him six months ago,” I say. God, even I know this sounds paltry and embarrassing. It makes me feel so stupid.
“Precisely!” my dad pipes in. “Eleanor, this is terrible. Just terrible. We are so sorry you have been hurt like this, but you will move on. I promise.”
“No, but, Charles,” my mom interjects. “It’s also important that she understands that she needs to take more time with her decisions. This is exactly—”
“Guys, I don’t want to talk about this right now. I just thought you should know I’m a widow.”
“A widow?” my mother says. “No, I don’t think you should consider yourself a widow. Don’t label yourself like that. That’s only going to make it more difficult to rebound from this. How long were you two married?” I can hear the judgment in her voice.
“A week and a half,” I say. I’m rounding up. How sad is that? I’m fucking rounding up.
“Eleanor, you are going to be okay,” my father tells me.
“Yes,” my mother says. “You will be fine. You will get back up on your feet. I hope you haven’t taken too much time off work at the library. You know with state budget cuts, it really isn’t the time to be compromising your job. Although, I was talking to one of my friends on the board of the hospital, and she mentioned that her daughter is a law librarian. She works directly with some very high-powered attorneys on some really impressive cases. I could call her, or give you her number if you’d like. They are a bicoastal firm.”
I’ve always known that my mother will take any opportunity to remind me that I can be better than I am now. I can be more impressive than I am now. I have the potential to do more with my life than I am doing now. And I didn’t necessarily think she’d waste this opportunity out of fear of being insensitive and gauche, but I don’t think I realized how seamlessly she’d be able to do it. I can hear, as she speaks, how far I have strayed from their plan for me. This is what happens when you are your parents’ only child, when they wanted more but couldn’t have any, when they procreated for the purpose of building mini-versions of themselves. This is what happens when they realize you aren’t going to be like them and they aren’t sure what to do about it.
It always bothered me until I moved out here, away from them, out of sight of their disapproving stares, their condescending voices. It didn’t bother me again until right now. I have to assume it’s because I didn’t need them again until right now. And as much as I may say that nothing will make this better, I’m inclined to think that feeling supported by my parents would have made this just a little bit easier to bear.
“No, thanks, Mom,” I say and hope that the conversation will end there. That she will give up and just resolve to sell harder next time.
“Well,” my dad says. “Is there anything you need from us?”
“Nothing, Dad. I just wanted you guys to know. I hope you have a good rest of your night,” I say.