And for twelve years, I stayed home.
It always began the same way. Sometime in late spring, Michael would bring it up casually, almost absentmindedly, as if he were mentioning an oil change or a routine work meeting. He would check flight prices on his phone, pull the small duffel bag from the back of the closet, and remind me, gently but firmly, that he would be gone for a week in July.
Every year, I ask the same question.
“Why can’t we come with you this time?”
And every year, his answer never changed.
“It’s a family thing,” he would say. “My mom doesn’t want in-laws there. She’s always been that way.”
At first, I tried to be understanding. His mother, Helen, had never been outright unkind to me. She was polite, distant, and emotionally reserved. The kind of woman who smiled without warmth and spoke without intimacy. I told myself it was generational. Or cultural. Or simply who she was.
So I swallowed my discomfort and let it go.
