"Susie"

Suise, James and Heather 1981

            When I met Susie, forty-seven years ago, her teenager heart saw no one but my future brother-in-law, James. Her eyes followed his every move. She draped herself onto his lap, latching onto him with the purity of young devotion. She attached her life to his goals to be an Air Force pilot, never longing for anything more than the role of wife and mother. The books she read covered with Fabio’s muscled chest, contained characters she longed to imitate. Conversations with her revolved around how James would take care of her for the rest of her life.

            My practical nature cringed whenever I knew Susie and I would be alone, forcing us to talk about her limited hopes and dreams that couldn’t be separated from James’s needs. I reminded myself those first few months that she would soon be a relative that I’d see frequently. We needed to find common ground, but her unplanned pregnancy, total dependency upon my in-laws for financial support, and unwillingness to even look for a part-time job, allowed me to slip into a critical judgement that I later regretted.

            Wherever they lived, I wrote Susie long letters talking about my teaching slots and the authors I liked. She was open to reading new things, and soon we’d exchange books whenever they visited my in-laws. Although their first two children were older than our son by three and six years, their third child trailed ours by fifteen months. My letters, sent within packages of baby clothing and toys for the kids, included paperback novels for Susie, too. I think we both worked hard to find common ground during the first years of becoming Chapmans. When James decided to leave the Air Force, he didn’t tell Susie about his choice. Suddenly, their family of six resided with my in-laws again, where tension and tempers simmered just under boiling almost all the time. For the first time in her life, Susie stopped her unnatural worship of her husband and their relationship never returned to the adoration James needed daily.

            During these troubled years, Susie and I talked often while our kids played together. When James decided to buy a home, they found one walking distance from our house. And then, four months later, he left her and their kids for an older woman. Susie’s grief mixed with anger, spilled into late night phone calls that left me with only a couple of hours of sleep before heading to work. Their brief round of counseling as a couple turned into more appointments for her, and her mantra became “He’ll wake up one day and realize he wants us back.” Instead, James distanced himself from the kids as well as Susie, often canceling out at the last minute on visits with them.

            Eventually, Susie’s mother and siblings helped her go to school to be certified as a massage therapist. Having a job didn’t fill Susie’s loneliness, but it built her confidence. During these years, I’d walk over to Susie’s house to visit. Our kids drifted between the two homes on foot, riding bicycles, or on skateboards. There were sleepovers, birthday celebrations, and a lifetime bond not just between the kids, but also with Susie and me.

            When she remarried, I saw her less. Her new husband came with three young adult children and an open door policy that meant a huge family gathering every Sunday. We still talked books and kids, sometimes heading for a walk around the neighborhood, but our visits became less frequent. My years as Mom’s caregiver meant Susie swung by here. She gave Mom massages, treated me out to Starbucks, and made certain I got away from the house every couple of months. We eased into a wonderful, comfortable friendship that meant weeks could pass without a call, text, or visit without feeling guilty. Whenever we connected, we’d talk about books, adult kids, ailing parents, and whatever movies she’d seen with her repeating dialogue for me. When COVID-19 took her second husband, she relied upon their children and grandchildren to work through her loss, with her next door neighbor filling her life again.

            Right before Christmas, I stopped by Susie’s home while on my morning walk. We sat outside, in her back yard. We talked about kids, her grandchildren, her new beau, and the latest authors we’d discovered. We promised to get together after the holidays for lunch and a longer, more relaxed chat as I needed to finish my trek up the steepest hill in our neighborhood.

            That casual promise to get together soon didn’t happen. A hemorrhagic stroke blindsided all of us, leaving Susie hospitalized with emergency surgery. Her children and siblings stayed with her, and her daughters let us know when we should visit. I chatted with her about our kids and books, and teased that she needed to recover so she could treat me to Starbucks one more time.  

Susie and me 2015

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

             

The perfect song to go with today's anniversary. If you listen to it, it's easy to SUBSCRIBE to give support to IOUNIO. 

 

"Preaching or Teaching?"

  

            Over the last few years, the zealous beliefs of many of my friends means I find myself scratching my head in bewilderment and mumbling, “Really???” And then I tend to pull back, step aside, and look at not only what someone has said on any given day, but at how that person lives.

            The “preachers” I shift into the column of “grain of salt” because I doubt their sincerity. They spend so much time proclaiming their views and sermonizing from their hilltops that they rarely recognize their hypocrisy. This is the woman who posts a daily devotional on her status up-date on Facebook but whose own relatives no longer speak to her. This is the man that proclaims his undying devotion to his faith while he lies to his co-workers and steals from his company. This is the woman who asks friends to pray for her or her family because they need a new car or money for a vacation. These are the people who always ask for more while they give less. And they never see the flaws within themselves while they function by spreading fear and misinformation.        

            I find myself avoiding this type of person more and more. At a younger age, I’d try to engage someone like this in a debate of ideas, but time and experience have taught me that extremists yell loudly and insult freely—both things I like to avoid in my milder middle age.

            I have other friends who have deep and profound faith. Not all of them believe in the same religious doctrines, and some don’t believe in any religion at all; yet they embrace a spirituality that cultivates certainty and calmness. This is the woman who shares her beliefs not because she’s expecting to convert anyone, but because she allows friends to see her flaws within her life in the hope that others will find strength by her example. This is the man who questions the canons of his childhood as he survives a divorce and learns to redefine himself and his role as a single parent. His quest takes him onto a different path and leads him to a new creed. This is the woman who spent her childhood and early adult years mired in a religion that piled guilt upon her for every wrong thought or deed. She shares her journey for finding peace within her heart—and passing it on to others. These are the “teachers” in my life.

            And although I don’t embrace the same beliefs as these friends, I never feel their criticism. They never react to me with hostility. They don’t expect me to change who I am or what I believe to match their viewpoints. They don’t define our relationship by forcing me to fit into their round holes.

            So I find myself puzzling over these two types of believers—the Preachers and the Teachers. Both types profess great faith and use their religions to guide their daily lives. Yet, one grates upon me until I sometimes feel raw and bleeding. With the other, I see the nurturing that comes from their convictions. I understand the reasons behind their need to believe because it makes them better people.

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Susie”

Suise, James and Heather 1981

            When I met Susie, forty-seven years ago, her teenager heart saw no one but my future brother-in-law, James. Her eyes followed his every move. She draped herself onto his lap, latching onto him with the purity of young devotion. She attached her life to his goals to be an Air Force pilot, never longing for anything more than the role of wife and mother. The books she read covered with Fabio’s muscled chest, contained characters she longed to imitate. Conversations with her revolved around how James would take care of her for the rest of her life.

            My practical nature cringed whenever I knew Susie and I would be alone, forcing us to talk about her limited hopes and dreams that couldn’t be separated from James’s needs. I reminded myself those first few months that she would soon be a relative that I’d see frequently. We needed to find common ground, but her unplanned pregnancy, total dependency upon my in-laws for financial support, and unwillingness to even look for a part-time job, allowed me to slip into a critical judgement that I later regretted.

            Wherever they lived, I wrote Susie long letters talking about my teaching slots and the authors I liked. She was open to reading new things, and soon we’d exchange books whenever they visited my in-laws. Although their first two children were older than our son by three and six years, their third child trailed ours by fifteen months. My letters, sent within packages of baby clothing and toys for the kids, included paperback novels for Susie, too. I think we both worked hard to find common ground during the first years of becoming Chapmans. When James decided to leave the Air Force, he didn’t tell Susie about his choice. Suddenly, their family of six resided with my in-laws again, where tension and tempers simmered just under boiling almost all the time. For the first time in her life, Susie stopped her unnatural worship of her husband and their relationship never returned to the adoration James needed daily.

            During these troubled years, Susie and I talked often while our kids played together. When James decided to buy a home, they found one walking distance from our house. And then, four months later, he left her and their kids for an older woman. Susie’s grief mixed with anger, spilled into late night phone calls that left me with only a couple of hours of sleep before heading to work. Their brief round of counseling as a couple turned into more appointments for her, and her mantra became “He’ll wake up one day and realize he wants us back.” Instead, James distanced himself from the kids as well as Susie, often canceling out at the last minute on visits with them.

            Eventually, Susie’s mother and siblings helped her go to school to be certified as a massage therapist. Having a job didn’t fill Susie’s loneliness, but it built her confidence. During these years, I’d walk over to Susie’s house to visit. Our kids drifted between the two homes on foot, riding bicycles, or on skateboards. There were sleepovers, birthday celebrations, and a lifetime bond not just between the kids, but also with Susie and me.

            When she remarried, I saw her less. Her new husband came with three young adult children and an open door policy that meant a huge family gathering every Sunday. We still talked books and kids, sometimes heading for a walk around the neighborhood, but our visits became less frequent. My years as Mom’s caregiver meant Susie swung by here. She gave Mom massages, treated me out to Starbucks, and made certain I got away from the house every couple of months. We eased into a wonderful, comfortable friendship that meant weeks could pass without a call, text, or visit without feeling guilty. Whenever we connected, we’d talk about books, adult kids, ailing parents, and whatever movies she’d seen with her repeating dialogue for me. When COVID-19 took her second husband, she relied upon their children and grandchildren to work through her loss, with her next door neighbor filling her life again.

            Right before Christmas, I stopped by Susie’s home while on my morning walk. We sat outside, in her back yard. We talked about kids, her grandchildren, her new beau, and the latest authors we’d discovered. We promised to get together after the holidays for lunch and a longer, more relaxed chat as I needed to finish my trek up the steepest hill in our neighborhood.

            That casual promise to get together soon didn’t happen. A hemorrhagic stroke blindsided all of us, leaving Susie hospitalized with emergency surgery. Her children and siblings stayed with her, and her daughters let us know when we should visit. I chatted with her about our kids and books, and teased that she needed to recover so she could treat me to Starbucks one more time.  

Susie and me 2015

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

             

 

"A Different Divorce"

         I gained outlaw status without even trying. My upbringing and my personality, or just some vague essence of "me" proved too different for my matriarchal mother-in-law to tolerate, and very early on in my relationship with my husband, she instructed his siblings to exclude me, not accept me into the family, and to make me uncomfortable and unwelcome.

Of course, I didn’t know this thirty-three years ago when I struggled desperately to find my place in the dynamics of my husband’s family. Within the first six months, though, I learned that I could never raise my voice or correct any of David’s brothers or his sister. The first lesson came quickly as we unloaded and hauled our meager belongings up three flights of stairs into our first apartment in San Antonio. Two of David’s brothers decided to pitch the football into my own brother’s face, and as Charles carried a box at the time, it made it impossible for him to dodge the shot.  The other boys laughed hysterically.

“You stop that now!” I shouted at them. “If you think I’m letting you into this apartment after doing something like this, you’d better think again!”

“What did they do?” my mother-in-law asked.

“They threw that football into Charles’s face and laughed! I’m not feeding them dinner if they’re going to be mean!”

I didn’t anticipate the slap. My family doesn’t hit. My mother gave me my last spanking around my sixth birthday. My father yelled. My sister sometimes squished my cheeks together and told me I’d better listen to her, and my little brother never once raised his hand to me in anger.

I stood, dumbstruck in my new little apartment, tears brimming and cheek burning from the impact. My mother hastily set down the box she held and hustled me into the small bedroom.

“Well, Elizabeth Anne, you’ve definitely learned a lesson with your new mother-in-law,” she whispered as she put a cold washcloth to my face. “Don’t criticize her children. Ever!”

That dire warning became increasingly difficult for me to follow over the years. My husband’s family gathers almost constantly, so the potential for saying or doing the wrong thing loomed into my destiny with certainty. Although I longed to fit in with the family, I just couldn't. I came from a family that encouraged differences and independence. David's family wanted everyone to fit into the same mold. It was difficult because I didn’t drink. I didn’t smoke. I didn’t lie, or cheat, or manipulate. I didn’t hit, or scream, or even verbally defend myself from the little mean and cruel digs that stabbed at me during their family gatherings.

The Exclusion Game began during those first years, too. The rules are easy. Make certain Liz and David know about some planned outing or activity at the last possible moment so they have to decline the belated invitation. It always made us look like the ones who weren’t trying to get along because we couldn’t make a function. They always overlooked the fact that often we received the invite an hour before the event started. This game extended to the next generation, and my mother-in-law would claim she couldn’t include our son on sleepovers because “one more child was just too many.”

I cried many times, and I threw up often after visits. Whenever I did visit my husband's family, I tried even harder to fit into their expectations. During those early years, I called to suggest shopping trips or lunch out with my husband’s mother and extended invitations for dinner at our home. Most of the time, I received rejections for my suggestions. Sometimes my mother-in-law would accept an invitation, but then call to cancel at the last minute, or not show up at all. After three or four meals ruined because of no shows, I stopped trying. My husband insisted that his family didn't intend to hurt my feelings. They were simply "thoughtless."

One Thanksgiving, my family came to San Antonio to celebrate the holiday. We couldn’t make it to my in-laws until that Saturday, when the entire clan gathered for a second meal. As the kids played football in the front lawn, my mother-in-law came out onto the porch and stood next to me.

“You ruined my Thanksgiving!” she snarled.

“What do you mean? You had everyone here on Thursday but us, and you have everyone here now,” I responded. Then I continued, “I hadn’t seen my parents in four months. This was the first time this year all of my family has gotten together. You have you family together at this house every month!”

“I don’t care about you or your family!”

A simple truth.

My dysfunctional dance with my in-laws continued for more years than I can remember until eventually one brother-in-law physically harmed me. The details of that day burned forever into my psyche. The ability of this family to circle around, protect each other, and rewrite the event within hours made it clear that I could no longer count on being safe in their company.

And so I divorced my husband’s parents and siblings. This decision came after advice from many friends and even other members within my husband’s extended family. They’d watched the shunning over the years. They’d heard the comments not just spoken to me, but also said about me in my absence. They offered a more objective point of view and had enough distance from the situation to suggest I simply sever relations except for public events like weddings and funerals.

I recently asked for suggestions for blog topics from friends, and one posted the idea of writing about people in our lives that we’d love to hate, but have to love. For many years, that conflict of emotions swirled into every interaction I had with my husband’s family. I don’t think I’d love to hate them, but I also grew to learn that I don’t have to love them. Eventually, it dawned on me that I don’t even have to like them because when it’s all said and done, they never bothered to extend friendship to me, and they never accepted my tentative gestures. For some reason, from the very beginning, they simply didn't want me as a member of the family. I'm not even certain they know why. It makes me sad that they've missed the opportunity to get to know me, but so many years have passed now that I've lost all interest in anything but nodding courtesy at functions. I honestly believe that since I divorced them, they’ve felt relief in not having to deal with the unexpected catalyst my presence created within their family.  

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"The Third Time"

        Some evenings, they sit together, the television set’s glow casting shadows over their faces. The dim light hiding the emptiness in their marriage. Peter sips his second rum and Coke of the night, appreciating the warmth that spreads through him, taking the icy edge from Gwen’s constant criticism. Slowly, his muscles relax into his favorite recliner, and the petty vexations of his work fade away. He glances at his newest wife and winces at the realization that he can’t remember why he married her. Third time’s a winner? He downs the last half of his drink and studies the empty glass, pondering the wisdom of another drink.

         In his youth, his lust caught him up and landed him in an unexpected marriage to a girl far inferior to him or his needs. His sense of duty toward Patty and their children lasted only as long as she idolized him. Once Patty pulled him from the pedestal, once she demanded that he treat her as an equal, once she began nagging him and expecting to have a say in his decisions, he stopped pretending he cared. He managed to have several affairs without his young wife suspecting a thing. He even propositioned her sister on several occasions, certain that his in-law would never tell his wife. After all, Patty had no choice but to tolerate him. She had no education and no skills. She was nothing without him.

Eventually, pretending that he cared became too much work. When Peter fell to his lowest point, his second wife entered the picture. Leslie’s desperation to capture and hold onto him became addictive. She praised his every word and deed; she oozed adoration from every pore. She loved the excitement of an affair:  secret meetings, weekends secluded in hotels, private dinners in out of the way restaurants. Unlike his stay-at-home wife, his mistress earned a living and showered him with expensive gifts. He’d slip off the Rolex every evening, tucking it safely into his car’s glove compartment, and replace it with the cheap Seiko from his fifth anniversary. His cockiness made him suggest to Patty a wonderful plan. He’d come home few times a week to see the kids, spend all holidays with both their families, and pay all of the bills. In exchange, she would look the other way on his absences the other nights. His wife should understand that his happiness outweighed her own needs.

Peter began cheating on his Leslie, his second wife, within the first year. The thrill of their affair, he realized too late, summarized his attraction to her. Since he’d allowed others to pressure him into this second marriage, he began searching for a way out. Leslie accommodated him much better than his first wife. She ignored his affairs as long as he paid off her charge cards each month. Her face lift added a temporary spice to their life, and her liposuction made her seem younger for a while. Their drinking increased as the years flowed by, and the lavish praise and fawning of his second wife ceased altogether. Her complaints and unhappiness aged her, made her ugly.

Peter rationalized his affairs by believing that he deserved someone better. He desired a woman who complimented his looks and personality, not a vampire who sucked away his youth. The dance of flirtation drew Peter into and out of liaisons with careless abandon. He enjoyed the fact that he escaped these relationships before the women demanded more from him than he was capable of giving. He disdained Leslie’s cloying nature, but stayed with her. Divorce cost too much, and he had no reason to disrupt his life for his casual affairs.

         Then Gwen entered his life, all glitz and glamor. The lifestyle she lived, because of her wealth, enticed him to break from Leslie. He knew he could absorb the cost of a second divorce, even losing his home, by moving in with Gwen. Although Gwen appeared confident to others, he sensed her fear of growing older alone. His razor sharp intuition culled out her insecurities. He played the role of adoring lover expertly and charmed Gwen and her tight circle of friends. Always a player, he instinctively knew just what to say and do to secure a spot in Gwen’s life. An expert at manipulation, he’d played the long suffering husband and father role. He painted himself into a financial corner, knowing Gwen’s generosity would guarantee him a place in her home. Their wedding, a private affair without the showmanship he craved, began his dissatisfaction with his third wife.

         Now, less than a year later, Peter craves escape again. The pretenses he used to gain Gwen’s love and trust are too difficult for him to maintain. Unlike his other wives, Gwen’s acid tongue and spitefulness worries him. Knowing his past, she keeps tight control over his movements and his money. He senses that she’s no longer charmed by his humor, no longer deceived by his blatant flattery, no longer fooled by his ploys or lies.

Suddenly, the desire for his third drink of the evening overrides his need to avoid Gwen’s caustic comments. He abandons the comfort of his chair, fills his tumbler with rum, topping the drink off with a dab of Coke. He feels her disapproving eyes spear his back, so he raises his drink in salute to her irritation.

  

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman           

"Her Fall"

 

I held your tiny hand, tugged you away from danger    

            carried you safely to the other side    

I protected you from water’s edge and ocean’s undertow—      

            the drowning tears of your uncertainties   

I watched from the sidelines as you changed—  

dwindling into someone I no longer recognized  

Now, dismay burdens me,    

cements me in place as you scale the precipice  

I call out, “Don’t! Turn back! Wait for me!”  

            as your compulsion drives you higher, higher  

I perceive the cracks in your mask  

            even as you disillusion those who still believe in you     

I reach futilely skyward, my feet anchored in place,  

            unable to halt your ascent over crumbling rock  

I try, and try again, to guide you to sure footing      

            but you ignore my words, indulging in illusions of independence  

I weep, a witness to your self-destruction,      

as your frailties and obsessions force your fall 

 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

  

"The Footlong Generation"

 Our children live at home— 
dreaming, planning, reaching, and working
within a reality of Pink Slips and Red Ink 

meeting Maslow’s levels by 
staying, sharing, settling, and waiting 
Our children leave our homes— 
dreaming, planning, reaching, and working
 
but return with Divorce and Failure 
postponing their destinies by 
bleeding, retreating, suffering, then healing
 
Our parents live at home— 
yearning, coping, striving, craving 
becoming our children by 
needing, depending, trusting, and relenting
 
Our parents live in homes—
yearning, coping, striving, craving 
relinquishing their destinies by 
falling, breaking, suffering, dying 

Copyright 2010 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“His Type"

 

In youth, he found a filly

One he bullied into submission

Turning her against herself

Holding her reigns tightly

Until her hooves pounded him into the ground

 

Next, he discovered a stately mare

One he adorned with silver and turquois

Turning her against herself

Grooming her for the family stable

Until her temperament demanded his temperance

 

He searched from stable to stable

One he enticed with his wealth

Turning her against herself

Forcing her to become the lost filly

Until her pride bolted her from his control

 

Now he seeks a steady mount

One he temps with everlasting security

Will he turn her against herself

Commanding her to his will

Until her soul requires nurturing he can’t give

 

February 20, 2023

 

“A Different Divorce”

         I gained outlaw status without even trying. My upbringing and my personality, or just some vague essence of "me" proved too different for my matriarchal mother-in-law to tolerate, and very early on in my relationship with my husband, she instructed his siblings to exclude me, not accept me into the family, and to make me uncomfortable and unwelcome.

Of course, I didn’t know this thirty-three years ago when I struggled desperately to find my place in the dynamics of my husband’s family. Within the first six months, though, I learned that I could never raise my voice or correct any of David’s brothers or his sister. The first lesson came quickly as we unloaded and hauled our meager belongings up three flights of stairs into our first apartment in San Antonio. Two of David’s brothers decided to pitch the football into my own brother’s face, and as Charles carried a box at the time, it made it impossible for him to dodge the shot.  The other boys laughed hysterically.

“You stop that now!” I shouted at them. “If you think I’m letting you into this apartment after doing something like this, you’d better think again!”

“What did they do?” my mother-in-law asked.

“They threw that football into Charles’s face and laughed! I’m not feeding them dinner if they’re going to be mean!”

I didn’t anticipate the slap. My family doesn’t hit. My mother gave me my last spanking around my sixth birthday. My father yelled. My sister sometimes squished my cheeks together and told me I’d better listen to her, and my little brother never once raised his hand to me in anger.

I stood, dumbstruck in my new little apartment, tears brimming and cheek burning from the impact. My mother hastily set down the box she held and hustled me into the small bedroom.

“Well, Elizabeth Anne, you’ve definitely learned a lesson with your new mother-in-law,” she whispered as she put a cold washcloth to my face. “Don’t criticize her children. Ever!”

That dire warning became increasingly difficult for me to follow over the years. My husband’s family gathers almost constantly, so the potential for saying or doing the wrong thing loomed into my destiny with certainty. Although I longed to fit in with the family, I just couldn't. I came from a family that encouraged differences and independence. David's family wanted everyone to fit into the same mold. It was difficult because I didn’t drink. I didn’t smoke. I didn’t lie, or cheat, or manipulate. I didn’t hit, or scream, or even verbally defend myself from the little mean and cruel digs that stabbed at me during their family gatherings.

The Exclusion Game began during those first years, too. The rules are easy. Make certain Liz and David know about some planned outing or activity at the last possible moment so they have to decline the belated invitation. It always made us look like the ones who weren’t trying to get along because we couldn’t make a function. They always overlooked the fact that often we received the invite an hour before the event started. This game extended to the next generation, and my mother-in-law would claim she couldn’t include our son on sleepovers because “one more child was just too many.”

I cried many times, and I threw up often after visits. Whenever I did visit my husband's family, I tried even harder to fit into their expectations. During those early years, I called to suggest shopping trips or lunch out with my husband’s mother and extended invitations for dinner at our home. Most of the time, I received rejections for my suggestions. Sometimes my mother-in-law would accept an invitation, but then call to cancel at the last minute, or not show up at all. After three or four meals ruined because of no shows, I stopped trying. My husband insisted that his family didn't intend to hurt my feelings. They were simply "thoughtless."

One Thanksgiving, my family came to San Antonio to celebrate the holiday. We couldn’t make it to my in-laws until that Saturday, when the entire clan gathered for a second meal. As the kids played football in the front lawn, my mother-in-law came out onto the porch and stood next to me.

“You ruined my Thanksgiving!” she snarled.

“What do you mean? You had everyone here on Thursday but us, and you have everyone here now,” I responded. Then I continued, “I hadn’t seen my parents in four months. This was the first time this year all of my family has gotten together. You have you family together at this house every month!”

“I don’t care about you or your family!”

A simple truth.

My dysfunctional dance with my in-laws continued for more years than I can remember until eventually one brother-in-law physically harmed me. The details of that day burned forever into my psyche. The ability of this family to circle around, protect each other, and rewrite the event within hours made it clear that I could no longer count on being safe in their company.

And so I divorced my husband’s parents and siblings. This decision came after advice from many friends and even other members within my husband’s extended family. They’d watched the shunning over the years. They’d heard the comments not just spoken to me, but also said about me in my absence. They offered a more objective point of view and had enough distance from the situation to suggest I simply sever relations except for public events like weddings and funerals.

I recently asked for suggestions for blog topics from friends, and one posted the idea of writing about people in our lives that we’d love to hate, but have to love. For many years, that conflict of emotions swirled into every interaction I had with my husband’s family. I don’t think I’d love to hate them, but I also grew to learn that I don’t have to love them. Eventually, it dawned on me that I don’t even have to like them because when it’s all said and done, they never bothered to extend friendship to me, and they never accepted my tentative gestures. For some reason, from the very beginning, they simply didn't want me as a member of the family. I'm not even certain they know why. It makes me sad that they've missed the opportunity to get to know me, but so many years have passed now that I've lost all interest in anything but nodding courtesy at functions. I honestly believe that since I divorced them, they’ve felt relief in not having to deal with the unexpected catalyst my presence created within their family.  

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The Third Time”

Some evenings, they sit together, the television set’s glow casting shadows over their faces. The dim light hiding the emptiness in their marriage. Peter sips his second rum and Coke of the night, appreciating the warmth that spreads through him, taking the icy edge from Gwen’s constant criticism. Slowly, his muscles relax into his favorite recliner, and the petty vexations of his work fade away. He glances at his newest wife and winces at the realization that he can’t remember why he married her. Third time’s a winner? He downs the last half of his drink and studies the empty glass, pondering the wisdom of another drink.

         In his youth, his lust caught him up and landed him in an unexpected marriage to a girl far inferior to him or his needs. His sense of duty toward Patty and their children lasted only as long as she idolized him. Once Patty pulled him from the pedestal, once she demanded that he treat her as an equal, once she began nagging him and expecting to have a say in his decisions, he stopped pretending he cared. He managed to have several affairs without his young wife suspecting a thing. He even propositioned her sister on several occasions, certain that his in-law would never tell his wife. After all, Patty had no choice but to tolerate him. She had no education and no skills. She was nothing without him.

Eventually, pretending that he cared became too much work. When Peter fell to his lowest point, his second wife entered the picture. Leslie’s desperation to capture and hold onto him became addictive. She praised his every word and deed; she oozed adoration from every pore. She loved the excitement of an affair:  secret meetings, weekends secluded in hotels, private dinners in out of the way restaurants. Unlike his stay-at-home wife, his mistress earned a living and showered him with expensive gifts. He’d slip off the Rolex every evening, tucking it safely into his car’s glove compartment, and replace it with the cheap Seiko from his fifth anniversary. His cockiness made him suggest to Patty a wonderful plan. He’d come home few times a week to see the kids, spend all holidays with both their families, and pay all of the bills. In exchange, she would look the other way on his absences the other nights. His wife should understand that his happiness outweighed her own needs.

Peter began cheating on his Leslie, his second wife, within the first year. The thrill of their affair, he realized too late, summarized his attraction to her. Since he’d allowed others to pressure him into this second marriage, he began searching for a way out. Leslie accommodated him much better than his first wife. She ignored his affairs as long as he paid off her charge cards each month. Her face lift added a temporary spice to their life, and her liposuction made her seem younger for a while. Their drinking increased as the years flowed by, and the lavish praise and fawning of his second wife ceased altogether. Her complaints and unhappiness aged her, made her ugly.

Peter rationalized his affairs by believing that he deserved someone better. He desired a woman who complimented his looks and personality, not a vampire who sucked away his youth. The dance of flirtation drew Peter into and out of liaisons with careless abandon. He enjoyed the fact that he escaped these relationships before the women demanded more from him than he was capable of giving. He disdained Leslie’s cloying nature, but stayed with her. Divorce cost too much, and he had no reason to disrupt his life for his casual affairs.

         Then Gwen entered his life, all glitz and glamor. The lifestyle she lived, because of her wealth, enticed him to break from Leslie. He knew he could absorb the cost of a second divorce, even losing his home, by moving in with Gwen. Although Gwen appeared confident to others, he sensed her fear of growing older alone. His razor sharp intuition culled out her insecurities. He played the role of adoring lover expertly and charmed Gwen and her tight circle of friends. Always a player, he instinctively knew just what to say and do to secure a spot in Gwen’s life. An expert at manipulation, he’d played the long suffering husband and father role. He painted himself into a financial corner, knowing Gwen’s generosity would guarantee him a place in her home. Their wedding, a private affair without the showmanship he craved, began his dissatisfaction with his third wife.

         Now, less than a year later, Peter craves escape again. The pretenses he used to gain Gwen’s love and trust are too difficult for him to maintain. Unlike his other wives, Gwen’s acid tongue and spitefulness worries him. Knowing his past, she keeps tight control over his movements and his money. He senses that she’s no longer charmed by his humor, no longer deceived by his blatant flattery, no longer fooled by his ploys or lies.

Suddenly, the desire for his third drink of the evening overrides his need to avoid Gwen’s caustic comments. He abandons the comfort of his chair, fills his tumbler with rum, topping the drink off with a dab of Coke. He feels her disapproving eyes spear his back, so he raises his drink in salute to her irritation.

  Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman           

“The Foot Long Generation”

Our children live at home— 

dreaming, planning, reaching, and working 

within a reality of Pink Slips and Red Ink 

meeting Maslow’s levels by 

staying, sharing, settling, and waiting 

Our children leave our homes— 

dreaming, planning, reaching, and working 

but return with Divorce and Failure 

postponing their destinies by 

bleeding, retreating, suffering, then healing 

Our parents live at home— 

yearning, coping, striving, craving 

becoming our children by 

needing, depending, trusting, and relenting 

Our parents live in homes— 

yearning, coping, striving, craving 

relinquishing their destinies by 

falling, breaking, suffering, dying 

Copyright 2010 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman