At my father’s viewing I had an enlightening conversation with my Aunt A, who is my father’s sister-in-law. Aunt A was able to answer many questions I had about my parents. In her early nineties, Aunt A is the last living relative of my parents’ generation.
According to Aunt A, my mother wanted more out of life. She wanted nicer clothes, better furniture, and a newer car even though she did not drive. She wanted to take vacations, go out to dinner occasionally and go to the movies. My father refused to spend money on the things she wanted. My father controlled the money, so he controlled my mother. My mother was given a small weekly allowance for cigarettes and other small incidentals.
In the summer before I started fifth grade, Aunt A, my father and my father’s brother, Uncle K, took my mother to the ER after a week of constant crying. Later in the day my mother returned from the hospital. She was no longer crying. The incident was not explained. It was ignored and swept under the rug like most uncomfortable experiences in my childhood. Life at home was better because my mother no longer cried.
Aunt A told me she took my mother to the ER several times, but the other times occurred while I was at school, and my father was at work. She said my mother was told she had to either leave my father or stay and accept her life. Aunt A said my mother felt she had no choice but to stay. She didn’t work outside the home or drive and had no access to the bank accounts. My mother didn’t think she could raise three children on her own. Being Catholic, divorce was out of the question unless a significant contribution was made to the church. There was only one divorced woman in our parish. She was treated like a pariah by other women. My mother didn’t want to be like that woman. My mother was trapped in an unhappy life.
My mother decided to fight back by making my father’s life a living hell, and by extension, the lives of her children. It was the start of decades of bickering over insignificant differences, cussing at each other, screaming matches along with my mother throwing things. In my younger years I learned to hide in my room or the basement when eruptions occurred. As a teenager I sought refuge at friends’ houses or in the nearby woods. Is it any wonder I started drinking in the sixth grade and started smoking pot in the seventh grade before moving on to more hardcore drugs in high school? My parents chose to ignore my behavior because I continued to be an honor student.
My father never gave in. He chose to live in chaos rather than spend money. My father had a relentless drive to save money, which, I suspect, was caused by being poor during the depression. My father only saw the need for the basics. There was no need for what he deemed luxuries. My father elevated being frugal to an art form.
My mother was controlled by my father. She was also controlled by her Catholic faith. Is it any wonder my mother became passive-aggressive and manipulative? My parents fought until my mother died in 2015.
A decades long mystery was solved by one conversation. The revelation did not provide any comfort. Knowing my father’s behavior was the cause of years of domestic upheaval and bitterness made me resent my father even more. He never enjoyed the money he hoarded. Was the cost of that wealth worth it?
The Retired Corporate Slave 
