Flying Away

I watched the snowfall as we pulled into Susan and Jerry’s driveway. I glanced at the clock on the dashboard: 11:45 a.m. My stomach tightened. Sunday dinners were usually painful, and that was without the added burden of other commitments to navigate. Today, though, I needed to leave by 1:00 p.m. to catch a flight to New York City. I’d recently been promoted again, from assistant accessory buyer—the job I landed just a year after our wedding—to dress buyer, my dream job. I knew not to expect any congratulations at Sam’s house. Success was barely tolerated here.

Given my time constraints, I wondered if today would be any different or if it would just be another routine battle to prove my worth. Stepping inside their home made me nauseous, and I caught a whiff of stale potpourri; none of it helped me relax.

I spotted Jerry on the snow-covered deck through the glass doors, lighting the grill with practiced ease. He gave a low whistle and nodded in our direction. Inside, Susan stood in the kitchen, her expression unreadable. Susan had already set the table, the finest china gleaming picture-perfect—a staged performance, not a joyful family gathering.

I approached Susan carefully, keeping my voice steady but firm. I’d learned from Sam that requests like this needed expert handling, as if somehow enough prep work would soften Susan’s expectations.

“Remember, I need to leave by one, Susan. My flight won’t wait.”

She turned to me with an insincere smile, her tone condescending.

“You’re always so busy, always on the go. We’ll make sure you eat, not to worry.”

Always a slight little dig, never within earshot of anyone else. Her words were one jab, and her tone was another: my schedule didn’t matter to her; that much was clear.

As the minutes ticked by and we still hadn’t sat down to eat, I tried to swallow my irritation, but the longer I waited, the more upset I became.

At 12:30, Jerry was still tending the grill, the meat untouched. Susan had walked to another room, laughing as she chatted on a phone call. My stomach flip-flopped—not just from hunger but from frustration.

At 12:45, I couldn’t wait any longer. I walked over to Susan, my voice annoyed, but I kept calm.

“Susan, I have to leave. I called you yesterday and explained my dilemma. I wouldn’t have come if I’d known lunch wasn’t at noon; I have a plane to catch.”

She looked at me as if she didn’t remember the conversation, as if I were speaking in French.

“Oh, we’re almost ready,” she said, strolling past me to have words with Jerry Sr., as though this information was an inconvenience rather than a simple fact. “By the way,” she said, “Mark and Monica stopped at the plant. There was some equipment he wanted to check on, so I told him we’d wait.” Then she walked away from me towards her husband.

I stiffened.

We’d wait for Mark, but my flight? That didn’t matter. I had been here before—standing in this house, trying to play the part and make it work.

Jerry stormed in from the grill before I could respond to Susan’s dismissal, his ears burning red. The door slammed behind him with enough force to rattle the glass.

“How dare you talk to your mother-in-law like that!”

His voice boomed, filling the room with an anger that hit like a physical blow.

I froze. What was he talking about?

I replayed everything I’d said to Susan that day, and I felt my reality slipping; her lies were what the rest of the family believed.

“Calling her names? Are you demanding dinner on your schedule? Who do you think you are, and why do you believe you’re so much better than everyone else?”

My mind raced, trying to piece together what was happening. Names? Demands? That wasn’t what happened at all. Was this what they always did? Twist the story and then act like that was the truth?

I turned to Susan, searching her face for even the slightest correction, a sign that she would tell the truth. But she stood there, silent. Her expression was smug, as if to say, ‘I won.’ She looked satisfied somehow, letting Jerry scold me as if I were a four-year-old child who had spilled her milk.

“That’s not what happened,” I said, shaking. “I never called her names. I only reminded her I had to leave.”

Jerry stepped forward, tossing his grilling spatula onto the counter with a thud.

“Oh, ‘I have to leave!’” he repeated, mocking me. “Maybe the whole world should stop for you?”

I was sweating and biting my lip as hard as I could.

“You’re ungrateful,” Jerry taunted.

I looked at Sam, my voice barely a whisper.

“Sam.”

I couldn’t believe he wasn’t saying a word. I held my breath, looking at him, pleading for him to speak up.

He swallowed, and for a split second, his mouth started to open. Then he looked down at his plate, gripping his fork tightly. His jaw twitched, and his fork began to shake. His voice was gone, caught between his mother’s accusations and the truth.

My lower lip shook, but Sam didn’t notice. He didn’t move, speak, or look at me, and in that moment, I realized that Sam would not protect me from his family.

I was and always would be alone—them and me.

I sat at the table and ate my food. Never had a person changed my reality so blatantly, and it felt wild that I was the only one who seemed to notice or acknowledge what had happened. But what had happened? How had Susan done this, and what exactly was she doing anyway? I replayed the scene over and over, oblivious to the food before me, burning with anger.

I was livid when Sam and I got in the car to drive to the airport. Sam still wouldn’t look at me. He held onto the steering wheel like a lifeline. He knew I wasn’t going to drop this. I stared out the window, willing myself not to look at him until I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Why didn’t you stand up for me?” My voice cracked with tears.

Sam exhaled deeply but kept staring at the road ahead.

“I’m sorry,” he finally offered, his head hung in obvious embarrassment.

“Your parents were out of line,” I stated firmly, still crying. “Sam, they humiliated me before the entire family, and you did nothing. Your mother blatantly lied to your father, and he came in and berated me. They don’t get to treat me like that. It’s not right. What is the matter with them?”

He grabbed the steering wheel tightly.

“It’s complicated, Tara,” he said, his voice quiet. “That’s just how they are. You can’t change them.”

I shook my head.

“You’re my husband, Sam. You need to stick up for me.”

Silence.

I turned to look at him, and that’s when I saw it: He was scared—years of being raised in fear had conditioned him not to speak up against his parents, even when their behaviors were wrong and cruel. He knew if he challenged them, there would be repercussions.

He nodded slowly.

“You’re right,” he finally whispered, but his voice seemed childlike.

I looked at him one last time, and all I could see was his family’s pressure; I knew then that our best course of action was to distance ourselves from them.

I exited the car and leaned in, my parting words stronger than I felt.

“I’m done going to her pathetic dinners every Sunday. I’ll go for a special occasion here and there, but I will not go and sit there and be treated like I or my time don’t matter.”

As I sat in the terminal—the loudspeakers calling out flights, people bustling around me—I replayed the last few hours of the day.

I had tried. I’d shared my homemade salads and appetizers. I had smiled through Susan’s passive coldness, tired jabs, and snide jokes. I’d ignored her smirks. I kept trying to fit into a place that had never welcomed me, and I was done with it.

I didn’t want to belong to a family that acted like Sam’s. I couldn’t control Susan or Jerry, and I couldn’t force Sam to change. However, I had the power to choose how I responded, and I could opt for fresh air over their airless rooms.

I stared out the window on the runway, my decision settling. I wouldn’t go back—not to Sunday dinners, not to being humiliated, not to pretending their behavior toward me was okay. As the plane ascended into the sky, I closed my eyes.

Was I flying away from Sunday dinners or my marriage? I didn’t know what might come next. But I did know I wasn’t letting the DeYoung family try to erase me; I’d define my reality.