The Chair in the Center of the Table

I was speechless. “You knew?”

“I knew they were using you. I also knew one day you’d get tired.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

My grandmother was quiet for a few seconds. “Because I was a coward. Because I thought enduring everything was a virtue. And because in this family, we confuse good women with women who should always be available.”

I cried again. But those tears didn’t break me. They washed something clean.

A month later, Nathan and I hosted a small dinner at his apartment. There was no twenty-seat dining table, no flashy crystal glasses, no people waiting for me to run back into the kitchen.