A dear friend of mine, who is a marriage and family therapist, recently sent me a piece of research because, as she put it, it reminded her of my family.
This is both a compliment and a small accusation.
I’ve often felt I know more family history than the average person should. Not just the sweet stories. Not just the “your great-grandmother made the best biscuits” stories. I know the uncomfortable ones, too. The ones most families might tuck away in a drawer labeled “Let’s not bring this up over brisket.”
One of those stories is about my paternal grandparents. When I was 7 or 8 years old, I learned they had once been on the brink of divorce. This was decades before I was born, and the story was shared at a family gathering over barbecue with the same casual tone someone might use to discuss a Christmas memory.
I was stunned.