On my 56th birthday, I bought a box of expensive grapes as a gift to myself.
I placed them on the table, meaning to enjoy them later. But before I could take a single bite, my young grandson began to cry.
I fed him, changed his diaper, rocked him to sleep and washed the clothes stained with milk from when he’d vomited.
By the time I returned to the living room, exhausted but relieved, my husband of 30 years was feeding the last grape to his widowed sister-in-law.
And with a light tone, he added, “Wilma loves them. You should buy more.”
I stared at the empty box and the mess left on the table, then said quietly, “Let’s get a divorce.”
He stood up in disbelief. “A divorce? Over a grape?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Over a grape.”
——
Martin paused, stunned, then gave a helpless smile. “Is it because Wilma ate the grapes you bought? Come on, you're a grandmother now. Why are you still acting like a child?”
He reached out to smooth the hair from my forehead, his voice so soft it felt like I was the unreasonable one.
Then he said, “Go cook something, will you? You know Wilma has a weak stomach. She can’t go hungry.”
Wilma Lewis sat gracefully on the sofa, the very picture of poise. She was the widow of Martin’s late older brother.
Grape juice stained her long, elegant, perfectly manicured fingers. She looked like someone who’d never done a day of hard labor.
I glanced at my own hands; coarse, cracked from decades of scrubbing floors and washing laundry.
And I said again, quietly but firmly, “I want a divorce.”
Samuel stepped out, irritation plain on his face. “It’s just a grape. Is it really that serious?”
He pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and dropped it on the table in front of me. “Here. Buy all the grapes you want. No need to make a scene.”
Wilma stood up right away. The diamond ring on her finger caught the light, it sparkled softly.
That ring had been a gift from my husband. He said it was a symbolic gesture, to mark the anniversary of her marriage for the sake of his late brother.
But in three decades of marriage, he had never given me anything.
Wilma looked mildly regretful. “I thought you didn’t like grapes. I’m sorry. Don’t fight over me.”
Flawless makeup, designer clothes and jewelry that whispered wealth without trying too hard.
Samuel took her hand gently. “Don’t feel bad, Aunt Wilma. Mom’s just overreacting again.”
Then he looked at me, half-reproachful. “You know she loves grapes. Why make it a big deal?”
Indeed, Wilma did love grapes the most. Every season, Martin would drive to the next city just to pick the freshest bunch, wash them carefully and deliver them to her himself.
When it came to me, all that remained was a pile of leftovers.
In thirty years of marriage, I had never once tasted the grapes Wilma loved so much. This year was no exception.
Tears slowly welled in my eyes. I looked down at my feet. I was wearing a pair of plain black cloth shoes; ugly, but they were practical for housework.
The Flemings were never short on money, but they never hired a nanny because Wilma didn’t like strangers in the house.
So I washed the dishes, scrubbed the floors and looked after the children until my back ached too much to straighten.
While I worked, Wilma danced. She painted. Martin stood beside her, admiring her strokes, correcting her posture.
They were both university professors. Their lives were calm, cultured, refined. But there I was, standing in the background like an assistant.
Suddenly, the doorbell rang. The birthday cake I had bought for myself had arrived. A small strawberry cake, topped with a few berries and two little doll-shaped figurines.
Samuel slapped his forehead and exclaimed, “Ah, I almost forgot what day it is. I actually prepared a gift for you earlier. Wait, let me grab it.”
My heart, which had long gone cold, stirred faintly, rippling with a sliver of hope. For a moment, I foolishly believed they had remembered.
