Chapter 3: Luck and the Parker Family

Everyone said I was the luckiest girl in the area. Folks nodded in approval at the church bake sale, whispering about how I had caught such a good man.

After I married Michael Parker, it was as if he’d suddenly been enlightened. Overnight, his ambition bloomed—everyone noticed the change.

In three years, he became class valedictorian. In six, he earned a scholarship to a top state university. There was a mention in the local paper; my mother clipped it and taped it to the fridge, pride shining in her eyes.

At twenty-seven, he was appointed county clerk in a wealthy region outside Atlanta. My family gathered around the radio to hear his name, laughter echoing off the kitchen tiles.

I, too, transformed from a working-class girl into the wife of a county clerk. People in town started treating me with a stiff, uncertain respect, as if I were both one of them and suddenly not.

But those ten-odd years that everyone envied were not happy for me. The admiration from others couldn’t fill the hollow ache inside.

My mother-in-law never liked me. Her words were careful but her glances sharp, always searching for fault.

She had raised Michael alone as a widow, cherishing him as if he were her very eyes. In her world, there was no one who could ever be good enough for her boy.

In her heart, her son was a star descended from heaven, worthy of marrying a senator’s daughter. Sometimes I caught her reading old clippings about the governor’s family, eyes misty with what-ifs.

"My Michael is really unlucky."

"A dignified county clerk, yet his wife is just a small-town girl who barely finished high school."

"I’m too embarrassed to visit others. Which of those officials’ wives isn’t the daughter of a prominent family?"

So she tried every way to torment me. Her kindness was always laced with an edge, her approval forever out of reach.

In eighteen years of marriage, I never once ate at the same table with Michael. At Thanksgiving, she’d insist I serve, her tone syrupy-sweet in front of guests but cold when we were alone. The smell of turkey and green bean casserole barely covered the tension in the air.

When we were in our small town, every time I finished cooking, my mother-in-law would send me off to do other chores—

Pulling weeds, feeding chickens, sweeping the porch, chopping wood, hauling water. Sometimes, as I hauled the heavy bucket from the well, I wondered if she ever thought I’d simply walk away.

There was never an end to the work at home. Dust always settled, leaves always fell, and laundry never finished.

Often, by the time I returned to the kitchen, sweaty and exhausted, only a cold slice of cornbread and half a plate of pickles remained for me. I’d eat standing by the back door, listening to the distant sound of laughter from the dining room.

When my husband became an official, my mother-in-law said that in big households, daughters-in-law had to stand and serve their mothers-in-law during meals. She’d watched too many reruns of Southern drama on TV, using tradition as a weapon.

I was still eating leftovers—the only difference was that the dishes were better than in the small town. The china changed, but not the rules.

When we were poor, after eating, my husband would bury himself in his room to study. The door would close with a quiet click, shutting out everything but his books.

As for household matters, he always ignored them, focusing only on reading and work. He seemed to drift above our daily grind, unreachable.

Our home had only three rooms: one for the main living area, one for my mother-in-law, and one for my husband. My world shrank to fit the spaces she allowed.

But my mother-in-law wouldn’t let me live with my husband, saying she was afraid I’d disturb his work. The hallway between us felt like a canyon some nights.

She even set a schedule for us to share a bed—twice a month, no more, no less. I’d mark the days in my diary, the numbers more ritual than romance.

In her own room, she made a simple small bed out of a door panel and two long benches. It creaked and groaned with every restless night, the headboard pressed against the window frame.

On that creaky makeshift bed, I slept for nine years. I watched the shadows crawl across the ceiling, counting the months as they slipped by.

For nine years, I can’t remember how many times I got up at night—

To bring her water, empty her bedside commode, massage her legs, rub her shoulders. The routine was as constant as the ticking of the clock on her nightstand.

In winter, she said it was cold and made me turn up the heater; in the middle of the night, she’d complain it was too hot and order me to turn it off. I’d shuffle in my slippers, the floorboards cold as regret.

In summer, she made me sit by her side, waving a hand fan to chase away mosquitoes. My arm ached, but I never dared stop.

I fanned her all night long. The droning hum of the fan was my only lullaby.

Even after following my husband to Atlanta, I still slept in my mother-in-law’s room. The city lights outside never changed the old routines inside.

She didn’t want maids to serve her, claiming they were clumsy and not as attentive as I was. She’d wave away offers of help, insisting only I could do things right.

Since marrying Michael Parker, I never had a full night’s sleep. My dreams were always interrupted—by her voice, her needs, her rules.

After Michael became an official, he took two girlfriends and three personal assistants who also served as companions. The news trickled through the grapevine, whispered behind closed doors.

The girlfriends were jealous, and he was too busy to care about me. I became invisible, my presence like background noise in his life.