When we got married right out of college and John insisted we move back to Colorado so he could work at his dad’s advertising agency, I didn’t put up much of a fight, even though I’d always had my heart set on living in Chicago. But John wanted the stability of a job that was a sure thing. It seemed like an easy compromise—I was sure I’d end up loving Denver.
But from the very early days, John’s mom was an ever-present force in our relationship. What started as suggestions turned into expectations. From big things, like furniture choices in the den, down to the little things, like which stamps I put on an envelope—she had opinions and expectations about everything.
And she made it clear that my appearance was to be takenveryseriously.
So I did exactly that. For the entirety of my twenty-three-year marriage. Because I wanted her to like me. Plus, I never really had a mother of my own, so I was excited at the idea of having her guidance in my life, especially as a newlywed and, eventually, a new mom.
Never mind that when I got really quiet, the voice I heard guiding me wasn’t Marilyn’s—it was my grandmother’s.
The woman who raised me.
Life in my small Midwestern hometown wasverydifferent from here. Slower. Less flashy. More personal.
New man, new city, new life. I had a lot of changes to get used to. But I was determined to fit in. Even after John’s parents made it very clear that I didn’t. And wouldn’t. Ever.
I’d been determined I could change their minds.
I grit my teeth at the image of John’s mother in my mind. It’s so incredibly frustrating to feel completely helpless, with no retribution, no recourse. It’s like the villains are getting away with their crimes, and I’m screaming into the void.
I shake my head clear of the headache-inducing thoughts of revenge.
And I sigh. Heavily.
I became the kind of wife and mom I thought I had to be, all the while listening to the many, many ways I was lucky John had chosen to marry me in the first place.
Funny, I don’t feel so lucky anymore
In lieu of mac ’n’ cheese, I make myself a cake.
Because you don’t need a birthday to eat cake.
And I plan to eat the entire thing by myself.
For as long as I can remember, baking has always been a way to relieve my stress. I have Gram to thank for that. I always carried a lot of stress, even as a little kid. I understand now that giving my mom “one more chance” to raise me led to a lot of confusion on my part.
Because she got one too many chances, and because they never seemed to work out.
It led to a sort of limbo of living for several years in a row. A few solid months with Gram, a few disastrous weeks with Mom. That was the pattern, and it took a toll.
But baking helped me cope.
Something about the act of mixing ingredients, stirring them all together to create something new—it calmed me. Something about not having to make decisions—since it’s all right there in the recipe—is settling. Relieving.
As I pull the flour from the cupboard, I remember the first time Gram popped into my bedroom and tossed me an apron. I’d barely said a word since I’d moved back into the old farmhouse, but what eight-year-old who’d just been abandoned by her only parent would feel like chatting?
“Pops brought home some fresh strawberries, and I’m making Strawberry Shortcake,” Gram said. “I need some help with the biscuits.”
In hindsight, I realize Gram didn’t really give me a choice.
My mother and I didn’t bake. Some nights we didn’t even eat dinner. When we did, it was often cereal or something from a box. I’d find out later that my mother didn’t abandon me so much as my grandma saved me.
If I’d stayed with my mom, I would’ve ended up like her—and Gram knew she had to intervene. She’d given her daughter a chance to turn her life around, but there was only so much time she’d let her have when my well-being was on the line.
There were a lot of feelings to sort through over the years, but somehow, Gram always knew pressing me wasn’t going to work. Instead, she gave me something to do and the space to do it. As I measured and mixed and kneaded, inevitably I’d make peace with the feelings I was trying so hard to bury.
Which is maybe why I still bake when I’m confused, stressed, sad, or lonely.
Tonight it’s Texas sheet cake.
