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I let the pan soak in the sink, grab a dish towel to wipe down the kitchen island’s countertop, and restack the drink coasters that we used at dinnertime. Returning to the sink and rinsing off a wine glass, I set it upside down on a neatly spread-out hand towel.
After making sure the rest of the kitchen looks worthy of a magazine cover, I turn my attention back to my husband. Where is he? I look around the corner of the great room to the stairs that lead to Denny’s office and the bedrooms; I check to see if the door is still closed. As I expected, it is.
Being upset with Amy is not the crux of my problem. It’s multifaceted, and here’s why: After I’d gotten home from work early and before dinner tonight, Amy stopped by for a few minutes. Only a few minutes, thank goodness. Amazing how fast she can ruin a day.
Because of the current legal changes in our state, she wanted to give Denny a copy of her living will that her lawyer had redrawn due to new restricted laws about passing on property to others and the tax implications. She was barely inside the house before she started sermonizing.
The main thing she emphasized was that I have no morals (which none of us does, so that includes you). Before coming to that point, it was all about Heaven, Hell, salvation, the forgiveness of sins—you know, vague topics Denny and I avoid discussing. She said I’m sinful and need to repent, but there was nothing she could do about it; she said something about “love the sinner but hate the sin.” Back on her religious gig.
My father hammered into me to always stand up for my beliefs, as they are the most important thing a person has. So, I took his wise advice, telling her flatly to get off her soapbox and stop evangelizing all the time.
Well, that’s where the problem started. I told Amy she should bend her pious, stupid rules, and this is who I am, and she had better accept me as is because I’m not changing for her or her God or anyone. And, for your information, my morals are perfectly fine. I’m a good person overall, as I’m sure you are, too.
My words didn’t go over well, as next she turned to my husband and said in a timid tone, “Dennis, you still believe in God, don’t you? You know He’s alive and in your heart?”
Denny muttered, his eyes taking on that deer-in-the-headlights look, “Yeah, Aunt Amy, and I know He’ll never leave me or forsake me.”
I will tell you and only you that Denny is such a patsy. He’s never said something that blatant before in my presence. “Religion is a private thing” has always been his response, and I’ve let it go at that. But to say he believes in God and a deity of some kind will always be with him? Excuse me, that’s not my Denny. Over the last several days, I’ve noticed his attitude has changed. His words came out of nowhere. Who did I marry? Why does his aunt have this grasp on him that he cowers to every time? What’s with him? Do you have any ideas?
When Amy abruptly left, her last words were that she’d pray for us. Okay, lady, do whatever you want, including praying, but please don’t get me personally involved.
Since I only had wine tonight, I carry the now washed and dried glass to the curio cabinet and open the top hutch, being careful not to clink it against my grandmother’s antique tea set. I glance up the staircase to the closed door again. No movement, no sounds.
As I said before, I’m as good as the next person; I mess up here and there, but I’m a decent human. It’s not like I’ve broken the Ten Commandments—"thou shalt not kill; thou shalt not steal; thou shalt not commit adultery.” I’m a law-abiding citizen.
I’m so tired of it. I’m tired of her interrupting our lives.
At this point, for some reason, I’m on the verge of crying, mainly out of frustration and exhaustion, so don’t be surprised if I do.
After the disturbing lady left, Denny and I had a fight during dinner. He and I said hurtful words to each other. I won’t go into the details, as I don’t think it’s proper for me to rehash them, especially to you, someone I don’t know. I’m confused, hurt, and upset. I don’t understand anymore.
My eyes tear up as I try to remain resolute and composed; I twist the hand towel, straighten it out again, and repeat the process before finally returning it to its holder next to the fridge. Of course, I double-check to make sure no wrinkles show on it.
Do you think I overreacted to Amy’s self-righteous sermon? Should I go upstairs and apologize to Denny? You may think I should be the first to admit fault, but that’s not me. I rarely feel it’s necessary to say I’m sorry; I don’t do regrets either.
Due to my surprisingly emotional state, I’m probably overworked and exhausted.
What do you think? It’ll be all right, won’t it? Denny and I will patch things up, right?
Amy praying or not, my marriage will stay intact. Especially now.