I understand complex family dynamics.
I know that issues rise to the surface, fester, and create something ugly. When my wife, Candace, disowned her family, I had no choice but to support her. Except that it’s been fifteen years, and she hasn’t said a word to them. And she won’t tell me why. “Mom said that I can’t go to Grandma’s house,” our son, Lucas, told me. “Grandpa is helping me with an assignment.” I had gotten so used to this — Candace always saying no, while Lucas just wanted to be with his grandparents — who doted on him. “I’ll handle it,” I said to him. I took Lucas to his grandparents and then returned home to find Candace making waffles. “I didn’t want you to take him,” she said. “Your parents love Lucas. I don’t see why he shouldn’t spend time with them. You have a problem with them, but that doesn’t mean he should.” Candace looked at me with her big blue eyes and blinked slowly. “They mean nothing to me,” she said. I couldn’t understand what had gone wrong. When Candace was pregnant with Lucas, her parents were always at our house. Her mother cooked everything she could dream of, and her father did whatever she asked. They were inseparable and had even moved in with us for the week leading up to Lucas’s due date. But then Candace gave birth, and everything changed. “Candace,” I said, watching her dig into her waffles. “Tell me what happened.” She continued to chew, avoiding eye contact.