A Story at the Dinner Table – Part 1

They were happily married. They had a good house and were fairly well-off. She had achieved her dream of becoming a dancer, and he was an engineer with a stable income. He was very filial and loved his mother, who was alone after his father died. He wanted to let her move in with them, and the wife agreed. She knew that the mother had had a tough life, being a poor farmer in China, and that she really deserved to live out the rest of her life in luxury. Her husband loved his mother, she wanted to support him.

She arrived. Complete with all the problems in-laws usually come with.

Dancing is almost blue-collar work, and every morning the wife could whine a little, smile sweetly, and the husband would go out to get breakfast for her while she giggled in warmth and got a bit of extra sleep. The mother resented his baby being worked so hard, so she cooked breakfast each morning instead. Not without, of course, a dirty look towards the wife when she’s eating the breakfast she got up early to cook.

The wife couldn’t stand being stared at like she did something wrong, but the mother was old, endured a lot of hardships in her life, and it’s about time she got her way. So she didn’t say anything and instead left without eating breakfast in the mornings. There were a lot of breakfast stands on her way to the studio anyways.

The mother was hurt by this. Was her cooking not good enough for her? Just because she was pretty. A dancer. Those artsy types are so high and mighty. They look down on the poor old uneducated lady from the farm. Even her washed dishes are too dirty for the wife, so dirty that the wife has to wash them again in secret. She had been looked down upon all her life. Bringing up the kids with her husband’s disability, fighting to sell what produce the dry land would spare them, enduring the insults and looks of disgust from the city folk… The only reward Heaven had given her was her eldest and only son, who was so good to her and made her so proud. He had invited her to live with her and leave the hardships behind. Her tears had barely dried when she arrived. And her son had such a beautiful city wife. Who knew that she would be looked down upon by her? Even in her son’s house, when she thought her misery had finally come to an end?

Meanwhile, the wife was being berated by her manager. Her movements were getting sloppy, and her smile no longer had the radiance it used to. If this kept up, she would be replaced by that young prodigy who only recently joined the company. It was lunchtime. She was already tired. She thought of going home, but that would be dangerous for her job, not to mention the mother would look at her like she was a spoiled brat again. Coming home early? Look at how lazy the new generation is. It was true that back in the day, things were a lot harder, but she didn’t want a competition of suffering… She had a job that she had always wanted and a comfortable house with no lack of luxuries (true, she had given up the master bedroom to the mother, but she didn’t mind). Her husband may not be too bright emotionally, but it was this simplicity that made her feel so loved. When she felt sad she can ask him to cheer her up. He would fail in the attempt, but she would find the attempt so sweet. He would spoil her if she asked him to, and she can get him to do anything. Alas, her good conscience doesn’t allow her to take advantage of him. But she wouldn’t anyways. She was too deeply mired in the honey of their new life together.

Except all that’s being dispelled by the mother, who has no sense of romance and expected her to be a rigid proper wife who never got her husband to do anything for her, but did everything for him. But she does do a lot. Why wouldn’t the old lady see? It was bad enough that she has to do the oily dishes again secretly, but instead of being recognized for being hard-working, she was blamed for being condescending. And yesterday her husband had chastised her for not eating his mother’s breakfast. She didn’t mean to insult her at all. And it was so surprising, having him be upset with her. She thought for sure he would be on her side even if she didn’t explain… He would warm her with his embrace, even though he only thought of it as a hug. For actual warmth, he gave her a white knitted scarf, which became her favourite… He would bring an umbrella in the rain, and it wouldn’t matter why she was caught in the storm… It had always been that way…

The next day she did eat breakfast at home. The mother watched her as usual. But before she had eaten two spoonfuls, she felt nauseous. She rushed to the washroom just in time. The mother watched with a look of exasperation. Is it for real? Was her cooking really that bad? Or is she just mocking her? As a second wave of retching came, she fled upstairs to her room, slammed the door, and burst into tears.

The wife went to work a bit late that day, and stayed late practising to make up for that, and the prodigy who’s threatening to replace her, although she didn’t feel so well. When she finally came home, the first thing that met her was an angry husband’s bellows. Stream after stream of lashing words; waves of cold blame and hot accusations splashed on her face, stopping only after spit landed on her melancholic expression. The husband seemed to regret his actions, and motioned to wipe her face. She flinched.

For a moment, they both froze, aware of the difference between the scene in front of them and the memories they associate with the beloved face in front of them. That night, she slept alone in the second bedroom. The husband couldn’t bring himself to join her, and she couldn’t bring herself to tell him she’s pregnant.

See? It got worse.