I met my cousin’s wife for the first time the other day. For her privacy, we’ll call her May (not her real name). I’d arrived late for a family gathering and the food was already being cleared away. I was the only person in the dining area, trying to shove cold chicken quickly into my face before my mother could find me with the list of chores that would undoubtedly need tending to.
I suppose I had a bit of a reputation for being rebellious and independent. I think this may have been why May sought me out. She had approached my table tentatively and sat down across from me, her soft and curvy body slightly stooped as her eyes flashed to the door.
“You’re Pete’s cousin, right? I’m his wife.” Her voice was hesitant as she tucked her hands into her lap.
It took me a minute to remember Pete (not his real name). I hadn’t seen him in thirty years and had lost track of his family. We’d grown up in California together for a handful of years before his family had moved out of state. His mother was the gossipy type and his father was a bit of a slovenly play boy, full of high opinions about himself. His father wasn’t around much but when he was, there were constant arguments. On more than one occasion, my father and uncles had been called in to intervene.
I remember a trip to Yosemite National Park when Pete and I were grade school kids. He had…
