She had turned over every stone. Or so she ardently believed. “Honey, you need to get a job,” her husband repeatedly insisted, with metronomic regularity. “We’ve got two kids, and we can’t make it on my income alone.” “I can’t take it anymore!” she beseeched me one summer afternoon. “He just won’t budge! He doesn’t get it! He just keeps telling me the same thing, over and over!” By this point, she had worked herself into a lather. I took a deep breath. “Well, how do you usually respond?” I softly inquired, doing my best to remain calm and neutral. After all, these were my neighbors and I didn’t want to risk alienating either of them. Her reply was swift, loud, and shrill: “I’ve tried everything! I tried crying, I tried yelling, I tried the silent treatment. Nothing worked!”
I felt my pulse quicken, my cheeks flush, and my head starting to spin. My self-imposed veil of neutrality was now on the verge of unraveling. She must have seen my eyes darting back and forth, futilely searching for something approaching a non-offensive solution. “Seriously?! Nothing worked? You’ve tried everything? Have you tried getting a freakin’ job?!” But of course, I didn’t actually utter any of those words. I finally semi-mumbled the phrase, “Sounds really frustrating.” She nodded briefly and continued to whine relentlessly about her unjust plight.
Was I being cowardly? Wise? Empathic? Dense? After all these years, I’m still not certain. But one thing I am certain of: She wasn’t really interested in an answer…at least not my answer.