There was a profound, painful hush in the house after my father’s death. Without his loud laughter or the way he whistled while brewing coffee, it was just Mom and me, navigating a strange new world. Never one to cry or crumble, she grieved in silence, but the weight of her loneliness enveloped her like an old shawl she never removed. Although she handled her grief gracefully, I could see how it sapped her energy. Her days settled into a pattern. Her previously effortless and frequent laughter became into an infrequent guest.
I feared for years that she would live out her days in that silent misery. I was cautiously optimistic when Robert, a silver-haired man with a silky voice and polished shoes, moved in next door.
Then he brought over handmade bread, then meticulously chosen wildflowers, and last he waved from the porch. Mom smiled again, a little at first, but enough to make my heart skip a beat.
Robert paid close attention, referring to her as “darling” at all times, bringing out her chair at supper, and praising her even while she was still wearing her robe. He addressed me with deference and even love, referring to me as “kiddo” and inquiring about my life and career. They got married in a small ceremony in our backyard within a year. I shed happy tears because I thought she had discovered happiness again.
But I would discover that happiness may be a façade. Charm may also be a beautiful way to exert authority.
My mother’s eyes lost their brightness after the wedding. She stopped dressing in her favorite outfits, including the vibrant lipstick tones she formerly loved, the flowing scarves, and the striking patterns. She distanced herself from everyone, including me. Plans for brunches were canceled, and phone conversations were shorter. She always responded with the same robotic response when I inquired how she was: “I’m adjusting.” Only a new chapter has begun.
Her voice, however, sounded predetermined. Her words and her eyes didn’t match.
I made the decision to stop by without warning one afternoon. I secretly hoped to catch anything real, but I told myself it was simply to check in.
As I had done a hundred times before, I opened the side door and let myself in. It was too quiet in the house. At that moment, I noticed Robert in the living room, frantically cramming my mother’s clothing into black garbage bags. Her distinctive red trench coat, her vibrant shawls, and her vibrant skirts were all thrown away like trash. With her hands in her lap and her eyes unfocused, my mother sat close by. One tear trickled down her cheek.
“What are you doing?” With a sharp yet trembling voice, I asked.
He didn’t flinch at all. She requested that I do so. She no longer looks good in these clothing.
She didn’t appear to have asked, though. She had the appearance of someone who has given up.
I had trouble sleeping that night. Her face, hollow and haunted, kept coming to mind. I therefore devised a strategy.
I arrived a few days later with pizza and wine and a phony smile. I did my part by telling Robert that I wanted a girls’ night out with just the two of us and thanking him for “taking such good care of her.” Smugly, he agreed with ease. He made that error.
The night out with the gals evolved into a weekend retreat. I prepared her favorite meals, packed her favorite books, and secured us a peaceful Airbnb near the lake. She didn’t start talking freely for nearly a whole day. When she finally did, however, the words came quickly—how he made remarks about her cooking, her friends, and her attire, and how he gradually undermined her independence until she hardly recognized herself. She sobbed. Then I did.A few days later, I showed up with wine and pizza and a fake smile. I played my part—thanked Robert for “taking such good care of her,” told him I wanted a girls’ night, just the two of us. He agreed easily, smugly. That was his mistake.
The girls’ night turned into a weekend getaway. I booked us into a quiet Airbnb by the lake, brought her favorite books, cooked her favorite meals. It took almost a full day for her to start speaking freely. But when she did, the words came in a rush—how he made comments about her clothes, her friends, her cooking, how he slowly chipped away at her independence until she barely recognized herself. She cried. Then I did.With the following note placed into the side pocket, I gave his cherished monogrammed golf bag to a nearby women’s shelter: “You liked to throw out what didn’t serve you.” I did the same.
Months went by. My mom regained her whole vitality. She joined a reading group, resumed gardening, danced to music while cooking, and wore her lipstick like armor. She laughed again, louder, more freely. She was no longer adapting. She was taking back control.
Then I ran across Robert at a supermarket one day. In some way, he appeared smaller, as if he had been deflated. His eyes were sleepy, and his clothes were rumpled. He tried to look me in the eye when he spotted me. I didn’t wince. I didn’t grin. I said nothing at all.
Silence is interpreted by them as weakness. They mistake obedience for affection. They think their strength comes from control.
However, ladies like us? Now we are more aware.
When the storm is building, we could remain silent, but when it does break, we are the storm.