Chapter 13 - MAYA’S ANGER AT MEMaya did not forgive me quickly because I called 911.
That sounds strange only if you think marriage works like points.
“I’m glad you came home.”
Then:
“I’m still angry at you.”
We were in couples therapy six weeks after Noah’s birth.
I said:
“I know.”
“No, you keep saying you know and then talking about what your mom did.”
Fair.
“What did I do?”
“You made me defend every boundary with her alone.”
I wanted to object.
Didn’t.
“When I said she shouldn’t have a key, you said emergencies.”
True.
“When I said I didn’t want her at the hospital during labor, you said she’d be hurt.”
True.
“When I said no visitors the first week, she came on day three and you said twenty minutes.”
True.
“When she mocked the meal train, you laughed.”
True.
Maya’s eyes filled.
“She knew you would translate me into something softer.”
That sentence stayed.
My mother did not have authority over Maya.
But I had repeatedly communicated that Maya’s no could be appealed to me.
May you like
That gave Mom a path.
The afternoon she forced dinner was the extreme version of a structure I had helped build.
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