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"Everyday meat and potato truth is beyond
our ability to capture in a few words."
-- Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird
It was a sunny, unseasonably warm Sunday morning
in October. In a quaint country inn in New Jersey,
surrounded by a glorious autumn garden, my young
grandchildren and I waited patiently for their Aunt
Jennifer's wedding to begin. The white carpet was
unrolled, the guests were assembled, and the harpist
was playing Pachelbel's Canon.
A hush came over the guests. The first member of
the bridal party appeared. Poised at the entry,
she took a deep breath as she began her slow-paced
walk down the white wedding path. Pauline, my grandchildren's
stepgreat-grandmother, made her way down the aisle,
pausing occasionally to greet family and friends.
A round of applause spontaneously erupted. She had
traveled fifteen hundred miles to be at her granddaughter's
wedding, when only days before, a threatening illness
made her presence doubtful.
Next in the grand parade came the best man, one
of the groom's three brothers. Proudly, he made
his way down the aisle and took his position, ready
to be at his brother's side. Then the two maids
of honor, looking lovely in their flowing black
chiffon gowns, made their appearance. My grandchildren
started to wiggle and whisper: "It's Aunt Amy
[my younger daughter]! And Christine [the longtime
girlfriend who cohabits with Uncle Craig, my daughters'
half-brother]!" As they walked down the aisle
and moved slowly past us, special smiles were exchanged
with my grandchildren -- their nieces and nephew.
Seconds later, my youngest granddaughter pointed
excitedly, exclaiming, "Here comes Mommy!"
They waved excitedly as the next member of the bridal
party, the matron of honor -- their mother, my daughter
-- made her way down the path. She paused briefly
at our row to exchange a fleeting greeting with
her children.
Next, the groom, soon officially to be their "Uncle
Andrew," with his mother's arm linked on his
left, and his father on his right. The happy threesome
joined the processional. Divorced from each other
when Andrew was a child, his parents beamed in anticipation
of the marriage of their eldest son.
Silence. All heads now turned to catch their first
glimpse of the bride. Greeted with oohs and aahs,
Aunt Jennifer was radiant as she walked arm in arm
with her proud and elegant mother, their stepgrandmother,
Grandma Susan. Sadly missed at that moment was the
father of the bride, my former husband, who had
passed away a few years earlier.
When I told friends in California I was flying
to the East Coast for a family wedding, I stumbled
over how to explain my relationship to the bride.
To some I explained: "She's my ex-husband's
daughter by his second wife." To others, perhaps
to be provocative and draw attention to the lack
of kinship terms, I said, "She's my daughters'
sister." Of course, technically she's my daughters'
halfsister, but many years ago my daughters told
me firmly that that term "halfsister"
was utterly ridiculous. Jennifer wasn't a half anything,
she was their real sister. Some of my friends thought
it strange that I would be invited; others thought
it even stranger that I would travel cross-country
to attend.
The wedding reception brought an awkward moment
or two, when some of the groom's guests asked a
common question, "How was I related to the
bride?" With some guilt at violating my daughters'
dictum, but not knowing how else to identify our
kinship, I answered, "She is my daughters'
half-sister." A puzzled look. It was not that
they didn't understand the relationship, but it
seemed strange to them that I was a wedding guest.
As we talked, a few guests noted how nice it was
that I was there, and then with great elaboration
told me stories about their own complex families.
Some told me sad stories of families torn apart
by divorce and remarriage, and others related happy
stories of how their complex families of divorce
had come together at family celebrations.
At several points during this celebratory day,
I happened to be standing next to the bride's mother
when someone from the groom's side asked us how
we were related. She or I pleasantly answered, "We
used to be married to the same man." This response
turned out to be a showstopper. The question asker
was at a loss to respond. First and second wives
aren't supposed to be amicable or even respectful
toward one another. And certainly, first wives are
not supposed to be included in their ex-husband's
new families. And last of all, first and second
wives shouldn't be willing to comfortably share
the information of having a husband in common.
Although it may appear strange, my ex-husband's
untimely death brought his second and first families
closer together. I had mourned at his funeral and
spent time with his family and friends for several
days afterward. A different level of kinship formed,
as we -- his first and second families -- shared
our loss and sadness. Since then, we have chosen
to join together at several family celebrations,
which has added a deeper dimension to our feelings
of family.
You may be thinking, "This is all so rational.
There's no way my family could pull this off."
Or perhaps, like the many people who have shared
their stories with me over the years, you are nodding
your head knowingly, remembering similar occasions
in your own family. The truth is we are like many
extended families rearranged by divorce. My ties
to my ex-husband's family are not close but we care
about one another. We seldom have contact outside
of family occasions, but we know we're family. We
hear stories of each other's comings and goings,
transmitted to us through our mutual ties to my
daughters, and now, through grandchildren. But if
many families, like my own, continue to have relationships
years after divorce, why don't we hear more about
them?
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