My father-in-law died. Our relationship has been nonexistent in recent years. After Peter died, my in laws seemed uninterested in most aspects of mine and my children’s lives. The less I talked to them the more the pain of our disintegrated relationship stung. I vacillated between praying to sky daddy that we could repair our relationship and screaming fuck them, at the top of my lungs in the privacy of my back yard. The roommates, to a lesser degree did that same thing, only less chaotic. When I received the news of his death, several things happened. The first was I carried the weight of telling my children, who are now adults, that their granddaddy had died. 

The second was to compile a detailed list of every disgusting, seemingly, vile act they had ever committed. A literally list. I grabbed a yellow legal pad and began frantically scribbling all of my perceived injustices, crimes against me and my babies as if I was heading into the Nuremberg trials or a cold case podcast. I was dogged in my pursuit of justice. I was convinced that I was right, honest and justified. I was on the right side of history. I was right, dammit. After my list of “wrongs” was completed. I flipped the yellow sheet of paper to a new page and began to carefully, compile a list of revenge, titled How can I get back at them. The list began with the basics, wear red to his funeral, as an attention getter in the mild mannered, vanilla Lutheran congregation. Remind everyone I spoke to at the memorial that I was the only woman to bear his grandchildren. 

The dastardly plan was in place and the roommates reluctantly agreed, although unsure why I was going to such extreme measures, not understanding that I was compelled to avenge them. 

Discussing the plan with my inside man, the person that was going to make sure I knew the details of the memorial, my friend, the pastor’s wife, she listened carefully before she asked me the one question that I had forgotten to ask myself. Why? Followed by the second important question, “Would any reason they gave make any difference? My anger fell, like a decrepit redwood. The pastor’s wife was right, none of this mattered. 

My anger didn’t matter, the reason our relationship evaporated into thin air didn’t matter. And upon not so intense reflection, I began to question my whole thought process. I wasn’t getting even for the sake of my roommates, I wasn’t protecting Peter’s legacy, something he would not have cared about at all. I was doing this for myself. I was being a selfish asshole, craving the ability to be a victim, A petulant teenager driven by a misguided sense of revenge.  A few days later when I was able to reflect on the overall picture of my life over the last 35 years, the sweetest memory kept flooding my brain. Christmas morning, my girl was 2 and my boy was 5. My In-laws were patiently waiting in our driveway as not to wake the children but also be available for every moment of Santa’s arrival.

Tired and sleepless from putting together a dollhouse and a race track, my father-in-law, with the crown my daughter had firmly placed on his head, lied on the floor and walked my kids through over single detail about the toys that “Santa” had delivered. He was patient, engaged and loving.

Maybe that one afternoon is all that needs to remain. R.I.P.