Sometimes you don’t know when you’re seeing someone for the last time. Recently my husband Randy, sons Patrick and Paul, and I went to Houston to visit Joyce, my mother-in-law, now in her senior years. I’ve always loved Texas with its flat plains, barbecue restaurants, and honkytonk music, so different from leafy, hilly, Yankee Connecticut.
I watched her play hostess, which she loves to do, offering popcorn, soda, and chocolate chip cookies. Her nails were done in the usual French manicure, hair perfectly coifed. Little did I know this was the beginning of a long relationship. Randy and I married in 1980 and his parents would visit each year. Joyce and I got along for the most part, although there were tense moments. We’re both strong-willed women who like to control. I’m a quiet, introverted New Englander. She’s an outgoing Southerner who loves lots of conversation.
She never held a grudge, always taking the high road. If she felt anger or sadness, I never saw it. In hard times, she kept her smile and zest for life.