What we learn from the past?

Mom floored me on her last visit. "I know you're unhappy," she said, "because you always turn to your books when you're unhappy and tune everyone else out." Happiness is key with my mother, constantly asking me if I'm 'happy,' and never really seeming satisfied with the answer. Of course, I'd always told her "yes" and changing to more truthful tactics this time didn't appease her any more. . .not that I'd expected it to, but I keep harboring this hope that I'll find someone to talk to who will understand. Mom just went to pieces, like she always does; it wasn't helpful.

I know that Mom constantly misses Grandma. Is it wrong to say that this was the first time that I truly felt that way too? Grandma was different. She could listen and, for some reason, I achingly think that she'd have the right thing to say.

Before Grandpa died, I'd seen Grandma as the perfect farm wife, calm, quiet, industrious, loving. . .almost a sidenote. When Grandpa left us too early, I commented to a friend on how impressed I was that she pulled through as well as she had, became her own person, so self assured. My friend turned to me in all sincerity and said, "Maybe she's happy to be out of your Grandfather's shadow." It was the closest I ever came to physical violence against someone. I knew Grandma and Grandpa had that kind of enduring love and for someone to suggest otherwise seemed like sacriledge. Of course, I was young and hopelessly romantic.

Of course, I still feel young and I know it's the hopeless romantic in me that finds me seeking release in books. But, I find myself considering my former friend's words in another light because I feel myself being pulled into a similar trap. I can see myself in her so much more than I ever can in my mother.

He wants a wife, the whole loving stereotype: cooking dinner, keeping the house clean, being at home waiting for him, demure, sensible. When he married me, I thought it was because he liked what he saw in me better than what he'd wanted. Mom always told me that you can't marry someone planning on changing them. Turns out, his mother never told him that; mine never told me that people were going to change in other ways.

So here I find myself, locked in, wanting to be so much more and just not seeing an out. I do love him. He hasn't done anything wrong; he probably won't ever do anything wrong, and its eating away at me. And now, I've brought him all the way out here, away from the comfort of his family and it still hasn't made us happy. I think of all the things I wanted to do - the differences I wanted to make and I shudder. He talks about kids and it makes me shudder. And yet, what will happen to him if I leave to seek my own selfish happiness? What does that make me? What if it doesn't make a difference?

That's when I think about Grandma. I remember the 'After Grandpa,' vague images of the woman he must have married who was so much like me it hurts. No more three squares, no more frantic cleaning, no more happy housewife - just a woman with purpose who helped people and acted on the things that move her. And with an aching that most days won't go away, I wish I could talk to her, ask her if it was enough that Grandpa loved her to distraction, if it was enough for her to change so much for so many years. Desparately, I want to ask her if she ever had regrets. . .