Chapter 1
I learned to use the internet when I turned seventy.
The very first post I stumbled upon was a golden wedding portrait of my husband with another woman.
The caption read: [Fifty years hand in hand. May we reunite in another world.]
I stared at the phone screen, too stunned to make sense of what I saw for a long moment.
Only the day before, Michael had complained that my soup was too salty.
The woman in the photo was his first love, the one he had always spoken of as the greatest regret of his life.
What cut deeper was that my daughter had posted the photo.
My son and daughter-in-law liked it most avidly.
A comment read: [I thought Grandma Margaret never married?]
My daughter replied: [They got a marriage license back when they were young. They never made it public.]
My stomach plummeted. I glanced around the spotless house I had tended all these years.
All at once, I felt ridiculous.
I walked into the kitchen, turned off the burner, and took off my apron.
From now on, if you expect three meals a day, please cook them yourself.
*****
'They got married when they were young?' My mind was spinning. 'Then what am I supposed to be?'
When Michael and I held our wedding reception, I was barely nineteen. I saved every penny, bit by bit, to buy pots and pans and to build this home from scratch.
Later, when life grew a little easier, I brought up making our union official with a marriage registration.
The first time was when the workplace announced that couples could formalize their marriages with official registration.
I asked him, "Should we go get ours too?"
He shrugged, "We're an old married couple already. Why bother with all the fuss?"
The second time was when our son was about to start school, and all the neighbors were getting their marriage certificates.
I brought it up again.
He put down his newspaper, his face darkening.
"Why do you keep fixating on that piece of paper? Does a certificate make a marriage?" Michael said.
A tightness settled in my chest. I held my tongue.
Years later, when my daughter married, I watched her return home with flushed cheeks, setting the small marriage booklet on the table. A quiet longing stirred in me too.
That night, I had barely spoken when my son cut in, sounding impatient. "Mom, you're not exactly young anymore. Why are you trying to act like the young folks?"
My daughter laughed and spoke up, "It's merely a piece of paper. You and Dad have spent your whole lives together. Everyone knows you are husband and wife."
Back then, I thought they worried I would wear myself out running errands for the paperwork. But now I know that wasn't the case at all.
The soup simmered gently on the stove.
I walked into the kitchen, turned off the stove, and took off my apron.
Looking at the pots I had polished to a shine and the bowls stacked neatly, I could not help but feel absurd.
All these years, I had been like an ox harnessed to a millstone, toiling without rest for this family.
I rose before dawn and stayed up long after dark tending to chores.
I made sure every one of them looked clean and respectable, not a detail out of place.
But when it came down to it, they were the real family.
I was nothing more than an unpaid housekeeper.
Just then, I heard the front door open.
My son, daughter-in-law, daughter, son-in-law, and the two grandkids filed in, loud and lively as always.
Charles barely stepped inside before he spoke. "Where's dinner?"
"None," I said flatly.
He froze for a second.
"What?" Charles asked, still stunned.
I thrust my phone in front of his face and demanded, "You tell me first. What's the deal with this golden wedding photo?"