One Shoe Curve

Managing Sam’s mother and her unyielding expectations during our first year of marriage was a burden I hadn’t fully anticipated. For every family member’s birthday, every holiday, and every Sunday, Susan expected us to be at her house for dinner without fail. On holidays, she also assumed we would attend their church service. What should have been a warm family meal and meaningful church attendance turned into an uncomfortable obligation—a ritual meant to maintain appearances rather than strengthen family bonds. Conversation was minimal, the silences awkward, and Susan’s passive-aggressive remarks, negative conversation, and sidelong glances chipped away at me.

Still, I tried. I brought appetizers and dishes to share, hoping to introduce a fresh newness to the routine. At first, they met my efforts with indifference. No one touched my caramel pecan sauce over baked brie with water crackers—a silent rejection that stung more than I wanted to admit. However, over time, curiosity ultimately prevailed. I started bringing fresh salads—mixed greens, nuts, fruit, and cheeses—a step away from their predictable iceberg lettuce and Thousand Island dressing. Someone took a tentative bite. Then another. Before long, I had earned an unofficial title at family dinners: the ‘salad maker.’ It was a role, not a relationship, but it was something. It gave me hope that maybe, just maybe, I could carve out a space here.

But it was more than just the food. I was an outsider in their world. I was the only one without their small town roots, Dutch heritage, or a connection to the Reformed church. My upbringing had been expansive and diverse, full of change and new experiences. Among the DeYoungs, I felt trapped in a box I could never quite fit into, and one I didn’t want to bend myself into for acceptance.

Susan never said it outright, but her judgment was ever-present. It was in how she pursed her lips when I spoke and continually glanced at Sam before responding to my words. Sometimes, I thought she wanted me to fail, to prove I wasn’t right for her son and didn’t deserve a seat at their table.

But Sam and I had our rituals, too. We went to Big River on Friday nights, starting with dinner at X’s, where Sam always ordered his favorite seafood melt, then ending up at McCormick’s, an Irish pub buzzing with music and laughter. We’d dance, share a few beers, and let ourselves be young and in love, if only for a few hours.

It was a dark and stormy night, after crashing into bed exhausted and content from our Big River night out, we had barely drifted off to sleep when the phone’s shrill ring sliced through the silence. My heart lurched as I reached for it, the glowing red numbers on the clock glaring back at me—3:00 a.m.

“Hello?” My voice was thick with sleep, but the panic on the other end jolted me awake.

“The police found your dad’s car! He’s missing! Sam, you have to find him!”

Susan’s voice was frantic, barely coherent. The phone felt cold against my ear.

“Okay, I’ll tell him,” I said. Not waiting for her response, I turned to Sam.

“It’s your mom. Something’s wrong.”

Sam bolted upright, instantly alert, and took the phone. His face, slack with sleep a moment ago, hardened as he listened. Even in the moonlight, I could see annoyance settle into his features.

“He’s probably just at a buddy’s house,” Sam muttered, rubbing his temples as he hung up the phone. His words sounded dismissive, but the tilt of his head betrayed him.

“What if he’s not?” I asked softly.

Sam let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair.

“Mom always blows things out of proportion.” His tone was flat, but his jaw clenched, as it always did when Susan pulled him into her world of emergencies. The event preceding this one involved a search through local bars for Jerry Jr., who often frequented certain taverns and would end up in no condition to drive home. Sam was always designated as the leader of the search and rescue team.

Still, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, grabbed his jacket, and reached for his keys.

“Do you want me to come with you?” I asked.

He hesitated, then shook his head. “I’ll call if I need you.”

I watched from the window as his taillights disappeared into the night, leaving me with restless thoughts and Susan’s panicked words. I crawled back under the covers, but sleep was impossible. This call wasn’t about Jerry Sr. going missing; in all likelihood, Sam was right, and he was just at a buddy’s house, away from Susan. But that was just it—Susan wouldn’t let him rest. Her grip tightened constantly, flexing control and testing the limits of her family’s love. The way she summoned Sam like a soldier expected to obey her command…

By morning, the truth had unraveled. The police found Jerry’s car smashed against a guardrail, but he had wandered off, drunk, disoriented, and missing a shoe. Eventually, he arrived at a friend’s house, oblivious to how he disrupted our lives.

When Sam came home, he looked exhausted. He dropped into the kitchen chair across from me, rubbing a hand over his face.

Without a word, I slid a steaming cup of coffee toward him.

“Dad showed up with one shoe. Drunk as hell,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“He’s fine, but it’s just…” His voice trailed off in frustration. I was starting to realize that none of this was acceptable.

“One shoe?” I repeated, trying to inject a little levity.

Sam let out a tired chuckle.

“Yeah. I’m calling that curve ‘One-Shoe Curve’ from now on.”

I smiled, grateful for our brief moment of humor. However, these summons for Sam were becoming tiresome.

“He loves to flirt with waitresses,” Sam rolled his eyes. “He’ll throw money around—buy the tip jar from the servers for a few hundred bucks just to impress them.”

I blinked, caught between disbelief and amusement at this new revelation.

“That’s… something. I didn’t realize your dad acted like that.”

Sam leaned back, rubbing his eyes.

“Yeah. Dad’s always been a character. But he’s different at the cabin, away from my mom. My dad remembers how to be a real dad instead of an enforcer. He acts like a normal person up north. It’s like he gets to be himself again.”

I frowned.

“What’s a normal person?” I asked.

Sam exhaled, shaking his head.

“It’s more than that. It’s like my dad’s two different people—the one she expects him to be and the one he is.”

I contemplated what he said, hesitating over my next question.

“Do you ever wonder why he needs to escape to the cabin so much?”

Sam shrugged, but I saw him beginning to question this himself.

“He just likes to get away from her sometimes,” he said, his tone casual—too casual. Beneath it, he had no answers. But he wasn’t ready to say that out loud.

I studied him for a moment before speaking.

“Married men shouldn’t keep secrets from their wives.” My voice was gentle but firm, an invitation more than an accusation.

Sam shifted in his chair, uncomfortable.

“What am I supposed to do, Tara?” he said, the now familiar defensiveness creeping into his voice.

I reached across the table and patted his forearm.

“This isn’t just about him sneaking around, Sam. It’s about what his secrets are doing to us,” I said softly. “We’re supposed to be a team. But it feels like you’re always the one protecting your family.

His eyes met mine, and for a second, I saw a deep sadness in his eyes—the buffer between his mother and the rest of the world. His tired smile begged me to drop it, to let it go.

“I’m trying to keep everyone happy,” he said. But the words rang like a placeholder, more of a reassurance for himself than for me. The humor from earlier had faded, replaced by the truth of what was happening to us.

“It’s not your job to be their keepers,” I repeated.

He squeezed my hand but looked away.

“I know,” he murmured, almost embarrassed.

We weren’t just talking about Jerry’s drunken night anymore. We were talking about all of it—the constant drama, the relentless expectations, his mother’s continued interference in our lives. He was still trapped, torn between the family he was born into and the one he had with me.

I squeezed his hand again.

“It’s okay to let go sometimes. You now have a life with me. We’re supposed to build a life together, not just constantly clean up their mess.”

For a moment, I thought he might finally agree—say that he saw how odd this behavior was. But he didn’t. Instead, he sighed, leaning back in his chair with that familiar look of resignation.

“It will be fine,” he said.

But he wasn’t fine. And neither was I. Then our conversation was over.

We kept joking about the “One-Shoe Curve,” but every laugh about that night felt like a Band-Aid over a more profound wound we weren’t acknowledging. And suddenly, I wasn’t just thinking about Jerry. I was thinking about Sam. I thought about how Sam changed when we were away from Susan and his family—his laughter was freer, his body less tense, his presence more grounded. And that’s when I realized. Sam was stuck, just like his dad.

Could we find a way out? Would we ever?

Weeks later, on impulse, we planned an impromptu trip to Wyoming. We drove west, a landscape opening before us, each mile putting distance between us and his family’s expectations. In the mornings, we fly-fished in calm rivers, taking in the scent of pine surrounding us, Sam patiently teaching me to cast, his humor slipping back in as I fumbled with the line. In the evenings, we sat by the fire, wrapped in blankets, and the quiet peace that had been missing for months returned.

After another glorious afternoon float on the river, I turned to him, my heart pounding.

“What if we moved here?”

I held my breath, willing him to see what I saw—a life where we weren’t drowning in expectations and could just be us.

Sam didn’t answer right away. He looked to the west, the soft glow of the sunset casting a golden hue on the mountains. His fingers brushed the smooth stone in his hand, absently turning it over in his palm. For a second—just a second—I saw something in his eyes.

Longing.

A quiet, fragile moment where he let himself imagine it, a life away from them.

A life where he wasn’t constantly on edge, waiting for the next call, the next demand, the next impossible expectation.

“Here?” he finally said, his voice almost wistful.

I nodded, emboldened.

“Why not? You love it here. We could build a life—our life. No one is pulling at you or expecting you to fix their problems.”

He exhaled, looking away. His fingers clenched the stone in his hand before he tossed it into the river, watching as the ripples spread.

And just like that, the moment was gone.

“It’s not simple, Tara. We have the business. That’s hard to walk away from.” His voice had changed. The wonder was gone, replaced by something colder, more specific.

I pushed forward, desperate to keep the idea alive.

“We don’t have to keep living under your mother’s thumb, bending to every demand. Sam, we have a choice.”

He shook his head, his hand raking through his hair.

“You don’t get it. That’s just how my mom is. She’s always had a say, even when she’s not around.”

I studied him, my frustration mounting.

“But why does she still have a say? You’re a grown man. We’re married. Why does she still get to have a voice in our marriage?”

His jaw tightened. His shoulders squared. The walls were back up.

“Because they control my life,” he admitted, his voice low but firm. “The business. The money. The house we live in. It all connects back to them. I can’t just walk away.”

I blinked, absorbing his words.

“You think she’d cut you off?” I asked, quieter now. His lips pressed into a thin line.

“Not outright. But my mom would make life hell. I’ve seen how she acts when it doesn’t go her way.”

I swallowed hard.

“So, do we continue to tolerate disrespect for ourselves and our marriage?”

Sam shook his head, his frustration shifting to sadness.

“It’s more than that. It’s respect for my family. My mom has built her whole life around controlling the company, controlling us. If I push back too hard, I don’t just lose a paycheck, Tara. I lose our lifestyle.”

I reached for his hand.

“But what about us? What about how we want to live? What if this keeps happening, year after year, until there’s nothing left of us?”

His eyes met mine, searching, unsure.

“I don’t know.”

It was the most honest answer he’d given me.

“It’s not your job anymore to obey your mother. Respect, yes. But Sam, you can choose your own life.”

He gave a slight nod, and just like that, I knew. He had seen it—just for a second—a life beyond Susan’s control. But all of it—the family loyalty, the business, the expectations—was too much to leave.

The drive home was different. At first, silence settled comfortably between us, the Wyoming air still clinging to our skin and the river lingering in our ears. But as the miles stretched on, Susan’s clutches settled around us. The easy laughter we had shared by the fire just nights ago—Sam’s warmth when he talked about the life we could have built—had cooled.

The closer we got to Big River, the more I saw it unraveling. Sam was very quiet when we reached the outskirts of town.

“Sam?” I finally said, my voice hesitant.

“Yeah?” His tone was clipped, distant.

“You’re pulling away again.”

He exhaled sharply, his fingers running over the wheel.

“I’m not,” he muttered. But his voice told me otherwise.

I glanced at his profile, searching for the man I’d spent the last week with—the one who had been free, who had laughed with me in the wild open spaces of Wyoming. But he was disappearing, piece by piece, like the mountains that faded in the rearview mirror.

Walking into our home felt stuffy, as if sunlight hadn’t been allowed in for a week. I missed Wyoming’s crisp, clean mountain air, where I inhaled effortlessly, so much room to breathe. I was starting to feel like a brushfire desperate for air, getting stomped out at every possible moment. Was I wrong to want freedom and distance from Sam’s family? I wasn’t ready to give up on our marriage. But I couldn’t understand Sam’s family dynamics or why Sam didn’t speak to them about their intrusive behavior. All I knew was that my interaction with Sam’s mother left me snuffed out.