Family reunions are the worst.
They’re literally, absolutely, completely the worst.
I didn’t even want to go to mine, but my mother offered me a free guilt-trip, and I accepted. That’s the problem with me: guilt wins me over. Every time. It’s like a sickness or a disease. I always say I’m going to stand up for myself, but in the end, I’m weak. In the end, I’d rather not rock the boat, especially when it comes to family. I don’t know why I still think this way, why I’m still stuck in this mode of thinking because they’ve never been there for me.
I’ve always been on my own and somehow, I’ve managed to do all right for myself. I have a decent job and I make decent money. I have an apartment and a car. My student loans are paid off. Somehow, none of that matters when you enter the world of a family reunion, though.
Somehow, what matters then is when I’m going to have a baby or when I’m going to get married or when I’m going to buy a house. Somehow, what matters is that I’m still a little overweight and not nearly as thin as my younger sister, Mandy. What matters at family reunions is that I have too many piercings and not enough modesty.
What matters is that I don’t fit in.
And I never have.
“It’s not that I’m telling you to lose weight,” my mother says, picking up a carrot and waving it around. “It’s just that I think you’ll be happier.”
“I’m happy the way I am, Mom,” I insist. She glares at me when I reach for the cookie on my plate, and I don’t pick it up. Instead, I act like I was reaching for a piece of celery, and she nods in approval as I start to munch on that, instead. Inside, I hate the way I’m giving in to her. I might talk a big game, but I’m avoiding things I want to eat because I don’t want her to complain or fuss at me.
“She’ll never get a man looking like that,” Uncle Henry says, walking by the picnic table where I’m sitting with my mother. He shakes his head as he makes his way over to Aunt Eloise, who is much too thin for her height.
My entire family is much too thin, I’ve decided. I’m the only normal one. That must be it. They all have body issues and self-esteem issues and they definitely all have eating disorders. Why else would they all be so gangly and scrawny?
It’s not me.
There’s nothing wrong with me.
I repeat this silently to myself, over and over. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m fine the way I am. I don’t know if I really believe this anymore, though. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m starting to question whether I really am fine.
Maybe they’re right.
Maybe there is something wrong with me.
Maybe there’s a reason all of my friends are getting married and I, at 29 years old, am not. Maybe there’s a reason the rest of the world really has settled down and I seem to be content with my same old job, with my same old life. Maybe there’s a reason for all of it. I don’t know.
I can’t think straight anymore.
Suddenly, I realize I’m close to tears and if there’s one thing I promised myself I would never do, it’s let my family know just how deeply their words really affect me.
“Excuse me,” I say, getting up from the table.
“It’s almost time for games,” my mother says, wrinkling her nose, as if the idea of me missing a game is just too much for her to handle.
“I need to use the restroom,” I say. I need to be polite right now, proper. I need to have good manners even though no one else seems to have them.
My mother presses her lips tightly together in a thin line and glares at me. Usually, she gives me this look and I cave. We don’t live together. I don’t even see her that often: maybe just twice a month. It doesn’t matter, though. She glares and I obey. It’s what I’ve always done. I’ve always been this huge pushover, but right now, I don’t want to be.
I stand and climb back over the attached bench, then head toward the restrooms.
“Well, I never! That ungrateful-” I block out the sound of my mother’s voice and make my way toward the bathrooms. I just need a few minutes to get myself together, a few minutes to calm down and unwind, and then I can go back to being the daughter. Then I can go back to being the well-mannered overweight dork nobody likes. Yeah.
What a life, right?
The tears are already streaming down my cheeks when I reach the bathrooms. I push open the door and go into a stall to cry. Somehow, I manage to do this silently. Good. I don’t want to draw any more attention to myself than I already have. The last thing I need is for someone to judge me further. The last thing I need is for someone to know how much their words really hurt me.
Suddenly, the door to the bathroom squeaks open and I hear giggling and laughter.
It’s Mandy, my little sister, and two of our cousins. I will myself to be silent until they leave, will myself to be invisible for just a little while. Just a little while and then I can sneak out of here, go back to the party, and socialize for another hour or two.
We only have these get-togethers once a year. All of the cousins and aunts and uncles from all over Colorado meet up and share an afternoon picnic. My mother promises it’s a chance to “catch up,” but that just means it’s a chance for people to gossip and figure out who’s doing the best for themselves.
Every year for as long as I can remember, I’ve hated the family picnic.
It’s never been fun for me and as far as I can tell, it’s not fun for anyone else, either. So why do we do this? Why do we get together and have this charade? Why do we get together and pretend we all like each other?
Obviously, we don’t.
“Can you believe what she was wearing?” Adele asks, and I cringe. They’re going to be talking about me, of course. What else is there to gossip about? No one else has screwed up majorly this year. No one got arrested or lost their job. The only fuck-up is me: the fat girl.
“So hideous,” Mandy says, and Janet laughs.
“She thinks she looks good,” Janet says.
“She doesn’t.” Mandy’s voice is harsh, shrill, and suddenly, I wonder why I’m here. Why did I even come? Do I really have a family obligation to be here? Do I really have an obligation to be around people who hate my guts?
“I feel bad for you,” Adele says. “She’s your sister, you know. Her looks reflect on you.”
I’m almost 30 years old and I’m hiding in the bathroom because my family hates me. I’m at an event that I chose to come to, and I’m hiding in the bathroom.
There is something seriously wrong here, and the realization is a little bit freeing, to be honest.
Suddenly, I understand I shouldn’t have come.
Suddenly, I realize no one would have missed me.
Suddenly, I realize it’s time to cut ties with my family and move on.
It’s time to be strong.
It’s time to be brave.
It’s time to be a fucking adult.
I push the stall door open and walk over to the group of women gathered at the sink. They looked surprised to see me. Mandy has the decency to blush briefly, but Adele and Janet just stare at me.
“Melody,” Mandy says. “We, uh, didn’t know you were in here.”
“Obviously,” I say, then I give her a chance to say something for herself, but she doesn’t. Mandy doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t deny what she said, she doesn’t apologize, and she doesn’t make up anything to ease the tension in the room.
She just stares at me, and I realize I don’t know her at all.
I never did.
“You know what, Mandy? Adele was right.”
“Um, she was?” Mandy looks confused.
“I feel bad for you, too,” I say, and Adele suddenly grins, but the smirk doesn’t last for long because I keep talking. “Yeah, I feel bad that you’re such a shallow person you have to put others down to feel good about yourself. What is this? Third grade?”
“Hey,” Janet inserts herself into the conversation. “That’s not nice.”
“Oh, you want to talk about ‘nice’? Is that what you want to do? Sure. We can do that. Let’s talk about how nice it is that your husband cheats on you with Adele when you’re not around. Let’s talk about how he was arrested for drunk driving three weeks ago. Oh, or we could talk about the fact that you’re still unemployed because no one wants to hire an employee who steals.”
“Melody!” Mandy tries to shush me. She looks around wildly, like someone is going to hear. “That’s not polite.”
“No, it’s not polite, Mandy. It’s not polite that Adele is a cheater. It’s not polite that she thinks it’s okay to mess around with her cousin’s husband. It’s not polite that you’ve known about it all year and never said anything. It’s not polite that you’ve slept with him, too.”
“WHAT?” Janet shrieks and starts hitting Mandy before I’ve even left the bathroom. I should feel bad about everything I just said, but I don’t. For the first time I can remember, I stood up for myself, and it feels really good. It feels great.
I head out of the bathroom and walk straight to my car. I don’t bother looking over at the park pavilion or peeking at who is gathered there. I don’t want to say goodbye to my parents or aunts or uncles. I don’t plan on speaking to them again.
After today, they can consider the relationships severed. I don’t know why I didn’t do this before. I don’t know why I wasn’t brave before. I don’t know why I didn’t stand up for myself before.
The truth is that not talking with them isn’t going to change my life in any way. I’ll still go to work. I’ll still pay my bills. I’ll still study in my free time and I’ll still hang out with my friends. The difference is that I won’t feel guilty when my mother sees me eat food. I won’t feel bad about myself when my father wants to know why I don’t have a husband. I won’t be comparing myself to my little sister.
I’ll just be able to be me.
I get to my car and unlock the door, but before I can sit down, I feel someone grasp my arm.
“Mother?” I ask. Her hair is wild and her eyes are wide.
“What did you do?” She says through gritted teeth.
“Did you just race over here? Mom, you know you can’t run. Your asthma is too bad. Do you need a puff?”
“I do not need a puff, young lady,” she says, but she’s breathing hard and I know she needs her inhaler.
“For the love of dragons, mother! Take your inhaler. I’ll be waiting right here and you can yell at me once you can breathe again.”
She glares, but fishes the inhaler out of her pocket and brings it to her dry, chapped lips. She pushes the top of the inhaler and dispenses a single dose of her Albuterol, then shoves it back in her pocket. I give my mother a second to start breathing normally again. I shouldn’t. I should take off, but I don’t. I wait a second.
“What did you do?” She repeats. I raise an eyebrow, but she just motions toward the bathrooms where Janet, Adele, and Mandy are screaming obscenities at each other.
“I believe I used the toilet and now I’m leaving,” I say. It’s time to grow up. It’s time to be strong. I will not apologize for what’s happening in there. Old Melody would have faltered. Old Melody would have instantly said, “I’m so sorry.” Old Melody would have taken the blame.
I’m done with all of that.
“You little bitch,” my mother growls at me, and for just a second, my mouth drops open. She’s always been mean to me, but she’s never been this cruel. “I know you said something to stir up shit. That’s what you do, Melody. You’ve always caused trouble for your sister and she hasn’t even done anything wrong.”
“She slept with Janet’s husband,” I say, baffled at what’s happening right now. “You don’t think there’s anything wrong with that?”
My mother waves her hand like she’s brushing away the idea that this is an issue. “That’s conjecture,” she tells me.
“Yeah, you’re not a lawyer, Mom. You can’t just use terms you hear on legal crime dramas and use them to win arguments.”
She frowns and crosses her arms over her chest. Once again, I’m struck by the fact that my mom is really thin and small, but more than that: she’s frail-looking. When did that happen? When did she start to look old? Weak? When did she start to look so damn breakable?
“Go apologize to your sister,” she says. “Go fix this.”
She’s not going to change.
I like to believe anyone can change if you believe in them hard enough, if you give them enough chances, but my mother isn’t going to change. She’s got no interest in changing, in growing as a person. She’s got no interest in me or our relationship or fixing things between us.
She’s selfish, and this is it.
This is the end of the line for us.
This is the part where I walk away from my childhood, where I walk away from the woman who raised me, where I leave the past behind.
This is the part where I accept there are some things I can’t change and I move on.
“I didn’t do anything wrong, Mom,” I tell her. “And I’m not going to apologize. I’m not going to fix this. Mandy got herself into this mess and she can get herself out. I know you don’t love me or want me around. I know I’m just the fuck-up to you, and you know what? That’s fine, but I don’t have any interest in being the person you blame for everything. Not anymore.”
For a second, I think about telling her she can call me when she changes her mind, when she decides to change, when she pulls it all together, but I don’t.
I whisper a soft “goodbye,” then I get in my car and I drive away, leaving my mother standing at the edge of the parking lot looking confused, looking weak, looking tired.
But she also looks angry, and I know I made the right choice.
I hope I made the right fucking choice.