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When Love Fails

Names of individuals were changed to protect their identities.

By Monique HardtPublished about a year ago Updated 11 months ago 14 min read
Runner-Up in Holiday Hijinks Challenge
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The Grange. Image by Google Maps

It was about twelve years ago, Thanksgiving. Cousin Brittney came in looking haggard and exhausted.

She was, at the time, in college; it wasn’t anything noteworthy, until I noticed that her ever-present boyfriend Roger didn’t come with her.

This was the first time in the six years they’d been exclusive that they didn’t attend together. Every single person asked her at different times that night, “Where’s Roger?”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her haggard eyes. She quietly said: “He had to work today.”

I heard that question and that answer at least ten times. Sometimes it was followed by another question: “Did he get a new job?” or an observation: “He always has Thanksgiving Day off.”

And to both, she smiled again, and shook her head.

I sat next to her for a little while; I was only fourteen and more socially awkward than a frightened cat who’d just learned how to speak English. I didn’t know what to do in situations like that. So I just sat next to her.

She never said anything to me; she didn’t even acknowledge me. Whether I was a comfort to her or an annoyance is a mystery.

The following year, Roger came.

Brittney and Roger had the most ideal relationship. They were high-school sweethearts who moved in together right after graduation; they’d been stitched at the wrists ever since. She often bragged about how sweet he was. He brought her coffee in bed every morning because he knew she had a hard time getting out of bed; he filled up the gas tank whenever he drove her car, and he kissed her forehead every night before she fell asleep. He left her sweet notes in the pockets of her coats or in her dresser drawers. She once found a note when she arrived at Thanksgiving. Poor Roger looked so embarrassed as she read the note aloud to a chorus of coos and soft giggles from our family.

Five years later, Brittney and Roger were married. It was a quiet affair with only a dozen or so guests, but for years after, Brittney glowed as she recounted that day.

That Thanksgiving, our family nagged them: “When are you going to have a baby?”

Brittney loved the question. She’d get that glow in her eye, her body would perk up and her toothy smile lit up the whole room. “We’re trying for one, hopefully it’ll be any day now!

But the following year, when this question was asked again, she only smiled weakly and said: “No luck.”

And the year that followed brought with it the same answer, and the year that followed that one did too.

Four years after Roger and Brittney were wed, there still was no child in their life. She had that haggard look in her eye again. The question was asked, as every year before, but Brittney was done answering it.

I picked up on the whispers that year: “God put a curse on Brittney for what she did. That’s why she can’t have a baby.”

I stared at my family, eyebrows knitted together. Brittney, as far as I knew, was an upstanding woman. Every time I spoke to Aunt Harrietta, Brittney’s mom, she had only good things to say; she bragged about Brittney’s newest accomplishments, of which there were always many.

Though I adored my family, I couldn’t ask them to elaborate. When things had quieted down, I found my grandma, in the kitchen as every year, chopping vegetables and fighting for oven priority.

She’s a god-fearing woman whose hair is always pulled up in a netted bun. Her hair is still more black than it is white, though she’s in her mid-seventies, and looking at her, you’d never know that her hair still trails down to her hips. There’s rarely a time when she’s not singing a song in her gentle voice in between gnashing a stick of gum, she always coordinates her skirts and button-down shirts to match one another, the colors she chooses are always bright, like flowers blossoming in a spring sun. Despite her appearance, I will only ever ask for her opinion if I want a bleak outlook of the future, for her every word drips with pessimism. Any time she gets involved in a conversation she isn’t comfortable with, as she was then, she would guffaw and exclaim, “Oh my word!”

This year we’d worn matching teal turtleneck sweaters. The moment I walked in, my aunts and uncles (her brothers and sisters) cooed and exclaimed, “You two match!” “Wow Monique, you look just like a young Lily Mae!”

I smiled as my grandma guffawed at them. “You’re all blind, she’s far more beautiful than I was!”

“Grandma.” I scolded. “Don’t say bad things about yourself, I look so much like you that it’s like you’re insulting me, too!”

And she gawped at me. “Oh honey, no.” She shook her head. “You’re far more beautiful than I ever was.”

There aren’t many photos of my grandma, and even less from when she was young, but I can tell you that she was far more beautiful at my age than I could ever be. But I just rolled my eyes and shook my head. This conversation had happened so many times that I couldn’t be bothered to argue with her anymore.

After the chorus died down, I quietly whispered to her: “Grandma, what happened with Brittney?”

“Oh.” She shook her head, her eyebrows knitted together, and her nose wrinkled. Somehow, she knew exactly what I meant without any elaboration. “She got pregnant in her early twenties and wasn’t ready. She had an abortion.”

The way my grandmother said abortion… it was the same way she spoke of the devil, or of criminals, or (unfortunately) immigrants.

“Is that what everyone’s referring to? I heard Uncle Theo say God cursed her.”

“Yes, yes.” My grandma nodded. “And I agree, I think that’s why she can’t have a baby now.”

My heart raced in my chest, my blood ran hot in my veins.

None of them knew what I was, who I was.

My family appears as god-fearing individuals who shun abortion and are strongly republican. Those of us who aren’t know it’s best to just keep our heads down during family discussions like this.

But I saw red, hearing those words coming from her pink mouth. I put my hand behind my back and squeezed my fingernails into my palm. I listened to her talk some more, but her words fell on deaf ears.

I’ll never get used to quietly standing by and letting my opinions go unknown. It’s not how I was raised, but for the love of my republican god-fearing pro-choice family, I chose to keep the peace.

I thought that’s what we all tried to do, that our family cared deeply enough for each other that opinions, orientation, political alignment, and religion couldn’t come between us.

But it was just a child’s hopeful wish: “we’re different.”

*****

The Grange.

We’d been coming here for Thanksgiving for as long as I could remember.

A two-story pancake breakfast house that closed on Thanksgiving, they offered our family use of it for a low rental cost.

To reach it, you must cross a single-file concrete bridge that is suspended over a three-story ditch. The railings are always slick with condensation, the bridge is tilted slightly and some shallow holes have worn into the concrete.

If you survive the walk, a warm wood-floored room greets you, with old-fashioned news articles from local papers on the walls, cross-stitched maps of the region and mildew-smelling drapes that hang over every window. A full kitchen hides in the back behind an open archway.

Downstairs is a polished court with a stage at the far end. A piano, a flagpole, and various old and broken pieces of furniture decorate the stage, left there for storage. This is where the children go to play while waiting for dinner, a place I, myself, used to spend hours playing in with my cousins, Brittney included (though she was much older than me).

The building sits right beside the river, like a silent viewer of the passage of time, while remaining the same year after year itself. The Grange was one of my favorite places to be when I was young.

And then, Great Grandma Beatrice passed away, and everything (save for the Grange) changed.

Year by year, less and less people came to visit. Our gathering dropped from over a hundred to under twenty. It was Beatrice Starr’s final wish that her twelve children, her grandchildren and her great grandchildren continued gathering after her passing, but her love and her wish weren’t nearly enough to hold everyone together. This was the first chapter in a saga titled: “The Death of my Childhood Concepts of ‘Love.’”

But it was two years ago that they finally came crashing down.

The year progressed like any before. Downstairs, the children played. A woman myself, I helped in the kitchen and found myself fighting for oven priority (though the little pancake house has three of them). We sat down to eat.

As always, I sat down with my grandparents and my Uncle Darold (who was a second dad to me growing up). Diagonal from us sat Brittney and Roger, and Brittney’s mom Aunt Harrietta. My grandpa regaled us all with the truth of hair. According to him, it grows deeper and deeper in your skull throughout your whole life. And then, when you hit a certain age, it either grows into a wellspring of life deep in your skull, where it will continue growing until you die, or: it will grow into an empty void, and fall out. With his mirthless face, he looked at me with unrivaled seriousness in his eyes and said: “It grew into that wellspring for me.”

Then, he did a double take down the table and he realized Uncle Tom, who had lost all his hair in his old age, had been intently listening to his story. “O-Oh… Uncle Tom, I didn’t see you there!”

And Grandpa burst into raucous laughter that echoed throughout the room like thunder rumbling before a lightning crash.

My grandma guffawed at me; her mouth was so downturned I feared it would jump off her face. She leaned over and asked: “Does he have to be so loud?”

I laughed, but it couldn’t be heard over my grandpa’s booming laughter.

And then came the question I’d dreaded. Someone asked Brittney: “Have you two had any luck?”

She didn’t answer.

Roger smiled nervously, twirling his fork. “No, still no luck.”

It should’ve ended there, like it did every year before. But my precious Uncle Darold, my role model, the nicest man I’d ever met, loudly said: “If you hadn’t gotten that abortion, you’d have a whole family by now.”

Brittney was furious. She clenched her fists tightly and she glared at my grandma, grandpa, uncle and me.

That feeling came again: my heart raced, my blood boiled. I gritted my teeth and like a coward, I said nothing.

I was raised with the understanding that, when you enter a relationship with someone, you become each other’s partners, confidants, supporters, cheerleaders. I looked to Roger for support, I expected him to come to Brittney’s aid.

He caught my eye with the corner of his, and gently set his hand over Brittney’s. “Hon… Try to see it from their perspective. If Norway suddenly passed a law that allowed kids up to four years old to be killed, you’d think it was awful, right? Well… that’s exactly where they’re coming from, and”

She slammed her hands into the table. Glasses spilt, silverware fell. Brittney stood, her cheap chair falling over. Everyone stared at her with venom in their eyes.

Brittney was a boulder oblivious to it all. She stormed out the front door, slamming it on the way out.

I looked to her husband; I expected him to go after her, for that was what couples should do.

He already failed her once, but he was determined to do it a second time.

He didn’t go after her; he sat there, staring down at the soda spilled over his plate.

I looked around the table. Surely someone would go after her… right?

Nobody did.

They cleaned up the messes made, they whispered amongst themselves.

For a moment, I stayed glued to my seat. Terror raced through me at the decision I had to make. But rarely had I shied away from something that terrified me, and I wasn’t about to start now.

With my legs a little shaky, I climbed to my feet.

“Oh good, could you grab us some paper towels while you’re up?” Aunt Mindy asked.

“Yeah… sure.” I smiled like everything was normal. I took several slow, agonizing steps toward the kitchen where the paper towels were; I stood frozen by the archway, my heart racing. I could feel them all looking at me, their eyes piercing into my back.

I walked in the opposite direction of the towels, to the front door where my cousin ran. I moved at a slight gait hoping nobody would have time to question me, and I kept my eyes down so I wouldn’t have to see them.

Just don’t look… open the door.

And I did, but only barely.

A noise like nails hitting concrete greeted me. When did it start raining like this?

And in the middle of that rain, looking over the railing of the bridge, was Brittney.

Her visage is like a portrait in my mind that I can’t throw out; her hair was in stringy pieces that clung to her cheeks, to her neck; her makeup ran down her face. Little droplets of water clung to her green hoodie before chasing each other down her arms.

I slowly walked up to her; I reached my hand out to touch her, then cowardly put it on the railing instead. “Hey, Brit… Are you okay?”

She clenched her teeth together for a moment, and then she faced me and she screamed. “No, I’m not okay! My one chance at motherhood was ruined because I was a stupid kid, my family all hates me, and my husband would rather take their side than embarrass himself sticking up for me!”

My feet shifted uncomfortably; I’ve never been good at being around someone who’s shouting. Barely notable above the rain, I mumbled, “But… you were still in college when you got pregnant, right? You needed to finish your degree…”

“And for what?” She shouted. “All of it, college, getting a good job, finding a good husband, it was all so I could be a good mother someday. What’s the point of doing all that now?”

“Brittney…” I cringed. I wanted to tell her she could still be a good mother, I wanted to tell her that I’m on her side, that I don’t hate her, that I’m proud of her for everything she’s accomplished. So badly, I wanted to let her know that everything was going to be okay, even if it didn’t seem like it right now.

But every word I could’ve said died on my tongue.

She trembled in the rain for a moment, and then, she stormed down the bridge. I reached my hand out to her, I wanted to stop her, I wanted to give her a hug.

But I didn’t.

I let her go, and slowly put my hand back down. If I had known that would be the last time I’d see her, I would’ve done it, all of it. I would’ve chased her down if I had to and wrapped my arms around her. Her ghost still lingers at the end of my extended hand, waiting for the comfort I never gave.

Dejected and embarrassed, I walked back inside.

Nobody asked how Brittney was; other than commenting on how soaked I was, nobody acknowledged that I’d gone after her, not even Roger.

Shortly after, people started leaving. It was far earlier than we normally left, with no after-dinner games; desserts were packaged in plastic containers to be enjoyed later. For many reasons, it was the worst Thanksgiving, most notably because my understanding of love had been forever changed.

I once thought it was an unstoppable force that could overcome anything, the most powerful force in the world. But what I witnessed that evening spoke volumes to the contrary.

I found out last year from Aunt Harrietta that Roger was sabotaging their efforts to get pregnant by putting birth control pills in the coffee he brought her every morning. They were prescribed to his mother, who didn’t want her son to start a family with a murderer.

****

Thank you for reading. As an afterword, I want to tell you all: say the things you want to say and do the things you want to do, no matter how cliché they may be or how dumb you may feel.

You never know when it’ll be the last time you see that person.

family
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About the Creator

Monique Hardt

Monique Hardt is a longtime lover of the fantastical and the impossible, crafting works of both poetry and fictional prose. She began writing books at the age of ten and has been diligently practicing her craft ever since.

Reader insights

Outstanding

Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!

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Comments (4)

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  • Judey Kalchik 11 months ago

    I was already upset with Roger and then you dropped that last paragraph. Skunk! And I am proud of what you did, not disappointed at what you didn’t do.

  • Alison McBainabout a year ago

    A very powerfully told and heartbreaking story. ❤️

  • Madoka Moriabout a year ago

    Gorgeous.

  • Babs Iversonabout a year ago

    Heartbreaking and left a ♥

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