The Unspoken Chapters of One Woman’s Sad Life

Will the backstory of your life be light or dark?

A woman I know by family association, died this month. We were not close, just thrown together for special occasions, where we shared loved ones.

I didn’t expect grief to hit me so hard. After all, she was not my cup of tea, as they say, stunting our relationship at the cordial level. I have no right to share the details of her life so I won’t be revealing her name.

Why am I shedding tears for a woman with whom I’ve never shared more than social niceties? I can’t call her friend, or even say we shared a meaningful, brief moment in time. If the rumors were true, she found me distasteful at best. Based on her passive-aggressive insults passed along with the mashed potatoes at dinner parties, I believe that rumor to be accurate.

My firsthand experience with her is limited. We took turns complimenting the chef over family dinners and applauded our shared loved ones’ accomplishments at concerts, plays, and various school activities.

So why does my heart break reading the sterile obituary that attempts to define her life? It’s simply because I know the sad backstory, and worse, I know it didn’t need to be that way.

For anonymity’s sake, let’s call her Alice.

In the early seventies, Alice, a young, college student leaning toward hippy, found love and married. I’m assuming they loved each other, based on photographs from their newlywed days when dreams shone in their eyes. Together they made a noble choice to adopt children, as a way to demonstrate kindness and to ensure a brighter tomorrow for generations to come.

With three children underfoot, the couple managed successful careers in the medical field. Keep in mind, I’m privy to one side of the story, the adopted children. Their combined stories show Alice as controlling and the father as absent and uninvested.

Their curly-headed daughter, we’ll name Mallory was enrolled in vocal, dance, and theatre lessons shortly after she could walk and talk. Expectations ran high along with the need to appear perfect to the rest of the world. When Mallory struggled with weight in her teens, Alice allegedly forced her to eat a box of donuts, and, while she vomited, Mommy called her names like piggy.

That’s just one story, there are many more.

I witnessed this young gal’s battle to earn her mom’s respect and love. I believe Mallory was the first child that Alice declared “predeceased” in the infamous will she waved over them since early childhood, like a big stick.

The term, “predeceased” was Alice’s chosen word that she spat out like venom. At the time it seemed to be an idle threat, but later proved to be an incorrect term for disinherited.

Eventually, Mallory turned to drugs, alcohol, and rampant affairs. Years ago, Mallory professed she’d let go of the quest to please her mother and moved on with her life. Today, she exists in a sea of consequences, after a life of destructive choices.

As someone guilty of thinking they know what another person needs, I pray that her deep wounds heal and that she finds peace.

I know the least about the oldest son we’ll call, Justin. I’ve lost count of how many children he has, scattered throughout the states. However, I do know that he is about to enter his fourth marriage. Growing up, he was known as a pathological liar. I’ve witnessed a few of the whopper tales myself. Justin was the second child declared “predeceased” in Alice’s will.

The third son we’ll call Abe, is not without damage, yet seems to have fared the best. At least that’s how it looks from the outside. One never knows the depth of pain the people around us carry. He’s married to a wonderful woman and they have a brilliant, kind-hearted son.

The father, whom we won’t bother to give a name, is retired, traveling the world with the wife he began an affair with a few years into his marriage with Alice. To the outside world, they seem quite content. The children, modeling his behavior, have chosen for the most part to be absent from his life.

Alice never recovered from the affair or the following brutal divorce.

It’s been like a never-ending saga. Twenty years ago, at a mutual relative’s wedding, the ugly fight was in full bloom. Their marriage had ended more than 20 years earlier, yet Alice and the no-name father could still not be at the same event, restaurant, or theatre.

If allowed, Alice would have banned him from appearing on the same earth. It was obvious the father and his younger model wife, enjoyed mocking Alice’s refusal to release her grip on the ugly past.

Her choice to dwell in the dark without ever switching the lights on is why I’ve given myself the liberty of nosing into her business.

I believe there’s a lesson here for all of us.

She managed to maintain a successful and lucrative career.

At one time she had a dear friend willing to stand by her through all the bitterness. Alice destroyed the lifelong bond after a disagreement. The friend died, unforgiven, without Alice by her side.

When her children refused to be manipulated or persuaded to see things her way, Alice moved away. At that time the beginnings of meaningful relationships with two of her grandchildren dwindled and then died.

Alice could have traveled the world. She could have dedicated her retirement years to mending the broken pieces with her children. Knowing the turns of their lives, I can say, she could have made a monumental difference in the quality of their lives.

Alice missed out on the hugs and giggles, the everyday ups and downs, the sunsets, the new birth, and the hope that’s there for those who choose to see.

At any time she could have switched on the light but instead —

Alice chose hate —

She built a prison, locked the cell door, and tossed the key.

Alice chose anger —

Slamming the door when Love knocked, wanting to enter her heart.

Alice chose to keep her familiar friend, bitterness, close by —

Those not wanting to hang out in the dark, she cast away.

Alice chose unforgiveness —

Refusing to give or receive the gift of forgiveness.

I do not consider Alice a terrible person.

The only difference between her and Mother Theresa is how she responded to life’s miseries. Had Mother Theresa refused to love, she could easily have been a wretched human being.

In writing this, I’ve realized that Alice and I are not that different. Behind me, is a gigantic stack of selfish, unloving choices I’m not proud of. God had to use a pick axe on my heart before it was soft enough to absorb His love. Only then, could I allow one human at a time to love me as well. And, eventually, I could love others.

I guess somewhere in there I made a choice. Because I still tend to lean toward the bad choice, I choose Love daily and some days, minute by minute.

Alice died, alone and unloved. In her final years, dementia stripped away her last chance to choose love. She spent her final words ensuring two of her children would not be at the funeral, and that there’d be no mention of her ex-husband and his wife.

She left behind an obit, summarizing her career success. Against the wishes in her will, the children and grandchildren she had previously declared predeceased were listed in the obit.

Alice made sucky choices.

Don’t be like Alice.

Check out our book about God’s love for two looney-tune drunks.