Three Families

During most of my 25-year marriage, I lived in a restored antique New England farmhouse, white with black shutters and green doors. The house had a farmer's porch with a porch swing in front; a white picket fence served as a backdrop for daffodils in April, tulips in May, and roses in June. Behind the house were acres of forested land; a short walk down the road led to a panoramic ocean beach.

Next door to my family’s home was a Dutch colonial. It had been the most grand of the three houses that had occupied this former estate, and it was occupied by a former Boston man who had married a sweet and generous woman from Palestine who bore two daughters and a son while living there. The third estate house, another farmhouse, had been restored and expanded by another teaching couple, who adopted a girl and then a boy.

All in all, this should have been a setting for matrimonial harmony and familial bliss. But that is not what happened there.

The Boston man was displeased when his foreign-born wife began to adopt more Western attitudes; he expressed his displeasure by breaking her arm. I had to physically threaten him one night when, in violation of a restraining order, he attempted to break into the house.

The adoptive parents two doors over were (and are) fine people, but at some point, the husband, whether in response to chronic back pain or to some insidious predilection, began to drink heavily. The family had some rough times to go through then, but managed to stay intact and get past them.

My own marital situation was a long, slow decline that we both seemed powerless to stop. There were no shouting matches and few arguments. Two people just seemed to stop agreeing, then to stop caring. Sometimes the absence of kindness is all the cruelty needed. When it became obvious that the tension was affecting the well-being of the children, it was time to try something else.

I lived most of my life without ever hearing the word “dysfunctional”, but now I hear it constantly. I’ve decided that all families are dysfunctional in some way--it’s just a matter of degree. I look back at my own upbringing, and I see a father who tried valiantly his whole life to please a woman who remained imperious and distant. What family does not have a member who lives in unspoken rage or silent desperation?

This is what I have learned. Use all your energy to fix whatever is fixable, but accept that it’s sometimes better to let go than to keep trying to make things work. If children are involved, their needs must come first, but know that they are resilient and surprisingly forgiving. No matter what, let the resentment die, and--most importantly--let go of the guilt.