For twelve years, my husband Michael followed the same routine every July. He packed a small suitcase, kissed the children goodbye, and left for what he described as a week-long family tradition on “the islands.” According to him, it was a long-standing custom his mother preferred to keep limited to her sons. Spouses and children, he gently explained, were not included. I accepted it at first, telling myself that every marriage involves compromise. His mother, Helen, was always polite but reserved, and I assumed this was simply her way. Still, as the summers passed, I began to notice the gaps. There were no photos to share, no small souvenirs for the kids, and very few stories about what he did during those trips. I tried not to question it, trusting that stability meant believing in the person you married.
This year, however, the silence felt heavier. One night, unable to sleep, I replayed twelve summers in my mind and realized something had shifted inside me. What I once accepted calmly now felt like quiet exclusion. The next morning, while Michael was at work, I called Helen. My voice remained respectful as I asked about the upcoming family vacation. There was a long pause on the other end before she responded with confusion. She gently explained that the family trips had ended years ago—shortly after her sons married and started their own households. She assumed I knew. I thanked her politely and ended the call, my hands trembling as the truth began to settle.