Leaving The Family

I was in love with my husband’s family. It’s hard to know where to start.

By default of birth and marriage I had the privilege of maintaining a place within a variety of families, from rich to poor, black to white. Thoughts of my mother’s side recall college professors, a rich ancestry and a drive to be educated and to succeed. My father’s side was contrarily uneducated, southern, loud and happy. Each provided me with a different sense of belonging and at a young age I appreciated the contrasts. But I had never experienced anything like my husband’s family.

Of all his family members, my favorite person to visit was one of his aunts that lived just up the road from his parents. We would visit and as soon as we walked in the door she’d smile and throw up her hand in a wave and tell us to help ourselves to a Pepsi and all the extra good cooking that always seemed to be just-made and waiting to be put on plates in the kitchen. We would come over on nights wrestling was on and I’d sit on the couch and watch her go off on the television, jumping up from her recliner and waving and yelling at the TV, afterwards looking back at me with bright, happy eyes to apologize for the curse words. She was as warm and quick and smiling as anyone I had ever seen, and I loved her.

At least once a year a few of the men in the family went fishing and word would get out that there was going to be a fish fry. Sure enough that evening there would be 15 to 20 cars all lined down the street in front of his aunt’s house. I remember all the workings of a full-blown kitchen strategically placed in the front yard, and a seamlessness to the rhythm of the people that can only be described as an effortless joy.

There were buckets of fresh catfish and perch, and tables for scaling and deboning. Large round pans of salted cornmeal and peppered flour were placed on rectangular fold out tables next to aluminum trays of cole slaw and macaroni, and patriarchal uncles sat in metal fold-out chairs manning huge stainless-steel fryers that crisped the most delicate, perfectly fried fish ever tasted. There was so much happiness in that yard, I swear it was magic.

Being part of that family felt like warmth that settles in the chest, and there was no way it couldn’t have felt like home. Family would come over to our house to visit and I always got a kick out of flinging open the door to ask if anybody wanted any sweet tea. Every Christmas I was proud when I was told I better bring some banana pudding, knowing that if there was any left over my in-laws would want it to stay in their fridge. Even the yard became an extension of family as bulbs and cut-offs from in-laws, grandparents and uncles were passed on in plastic grocery bags. And if I’m truly honest in my reminiscing I have to admit the pleasure of knowing that if Thanksgiving was going to be around 3:00, we wouldn’t eat until around 5:00.

His grandmother was a saint. When I picture her she’s sitting upright on an old, well-kept floral couch in her living room, the kind with dark glossy wooden arms. That blessed woman’s presence took up entire spaces and you couldn’t be around her without absorbing a sense of peace and unconditional love. She was undeniably the glue, and everyone flocked to her home for cookouts and holidays. I never remember her saying much, but always smiling, and always, everyone around her smiling.

I had gone from a person who had always experienced family through road trips to someone surrounded by people that were a living part of the community. In an instant I was transformed from an insecure teenager, perpetually awkward and unsure of herself, to immediate acceptance, a member of a beautiful flow of love and comradery. I belonged.

But now. What would they think of me, leaving my husband, their blood. Even though there were so many problems and I would have lost my mind, through all these years the solidity of our marriage had never been questioned. There was a trust that had been given to he and I as a couple that his family could watch as our years time lapsed into senescence. My mind was alert to how naturally they had accepted me, and I deeply grieved the loss of their love. In an instant I was on the outside, fearful of the possibility of an interaction in public where I might run into someone who would validate the way that I felt; that I was now looked down on, for hurting my husband and breaking up the family.

I vowed to never speak poorly of my husband. His sins towards me were mine to bear, and he was going to have a hard enough time re-starting his life now that I was gone. Any recount of the events that led to my absence would have been stated in a defensive effort to validate my decision, and I needed no validation.

I allowed the part of me that searched for peace to be the compass that guided my words; I was acutely aware of the potential repercussions on my own spirit if I chose the path of perpetually reliving all of the manners in which I was brought down. It was better to be the recipient of disdain rather than a perpetuator of hate, and I hoped that this feeling of morality would count for something, and that maybe I would be forgiven for all of the things unknown to them. I hoped that his family saw me as a person after all those years, maybe even trusted what they knew and allowed a level of grace to be felt towards the easy soul that I had tried to be.

It was about a week after I left my husband when the realization of this great loss came to me all the sudden. I had been sitting at my desk at work and I remember getting up and walking down the hall to my friend’s office, sitting down and closing the door. I talked about love and cookouts, playing cards and cutting up with his cousins. Huge spaces of my future once filled with love had suddenly been emptied of memories that I didn’t even know I had yet.

A short while passed, I stayed in the office a few more minutes to regain my mind and I accepted that the only remedy would be the passing of days into weeks into years. Although I could not conceive how it could possibly happen, I had to trust that somehow I would weave together a new life, that my timelapse would continue and that some amount of fullness would be felt eventually and the void would at least be lessened.

I found myself settled for the moment so I walked back to my office and checked my cell phone that had been sitting on my desk. There was a message from one of my husband’s cousins who had never reached out to me before. My heart skipped and my stomach dropped with unease. I expected the worst. The message: “I heard what happened between you guys, and I want you to know that I’m very sorry to hear about that. Just know, you will always be family.”

I sat down in my chair with a new realization- this one correct. I didn’t have to leave them behind. There was no need to distort the memories of the past and there was no need to make assumptions about the present or the future. I only ever needed to trust myself and I only ever needed to live by this trust.

I know who I am, I see my life. Everything is going to be okay, and I need not worry. Even in times of turmoil, even in times when I didn’t know that I was listening, the path was unfolding before me just as a flower blooms. It is beautiful, and it is just as it should be.