What I Learned On The Drive Home Alone, And Why The Separate Table Was Never About Me At All

I took the car. Desmond stayed. I told myself that was the beginning of the end, and I spent four hours on the highway building the whole speech for the divorce lawyer.

His aunt Rosalind called me at a gas station near Kettering. The one person who never once looked at me all week. She asked me to pull over, and then she told me the thing that reorganized everything.

The separate table was not a tradition. It was a punishment, and it was not aimed at me.

Twenty-two years ago, Desmond’s older brother married a woman the family adored, seated her at the center of everything, folded her in completely. Then she left him, took the children to another state, and cut all of them off. Marguerite never recovered. She decided, in the private logic of a wounded woman, that the family would never again let an in-law all the way in until they had proven they would stay. The far chair was a test. Every in-law had sat in it. Colette’s husband had sat in it for two years. Rosalind said I lasted the shortest of any of them before I fought back, and that this had frightened Marguerite, because a woman who fights is a woman who might also leave.

None of that excuses it. I told Rosalind so. A test nobody tells you you’re taking is just cruelty with a backstory.

But it changed what I did next. I did not file. I drove back the following weekend, alone, and I sat down across from Marguerite and made her say it out loud, the brother, the woman, the children she never sees. She cried. I did not comfort her, but I understood her, and understanding is not the same as forgiving.

Desmond and I are still married. Barely, and only because he finally learned the word no and used it on his own mother at Thanksgiving, in front of everyone, which cost him something I could see.

I sit at the main table now. I earned it in the ugliest possible way, by threatening to leave.

Rosalind and I are close. She never sat me at the far table because she was watching to see whether I would survive it, the way she once did. She was the only one rooting for me the entire time, silently, from the seat nobody suspected.

Adrian Vale
Adrian Vale studied English literature. He is a novelist. He writes atmospheric literary fiction, quiet, character-driven stories about people who drift out of their own lives and the strange, lingering things that find them afterward.

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