Sunday Dinner

A few years ago, before my daughter and her husband were married, I asked them if they wanted to have Sunday dinner at the house with us. It wasn’t a ploy to get them to spend more time with me and Mark, but rather that they were both working full-time, Maggie hadn’t honed her cooking skills yet, and I felt sorry for Nate who didn’t seem to me to be getting enough to eat. At the time, Will was in college, Mallory was still home, and both of them would join in on our dinners as their schedules allowed.

It was never supposed to be a regular thing, but the next Sunday came along and I asked them again, and the one after that and the one after that. Because Mark and I were usually home most of the day, we started making better meals, he’d cook on the grill, I’d experiment with new side dishes, we’d get some beer and wine, and there was always something for dessert. We nearly always worked together on these meals, fighting (literally) side-by-side for counter space in our teeny kitchen.

I knew that Mark and I liked cooking together, we liked having the kids together one day a week, we liked getting caught up with them, and them with each other. We did not know that the kids looked forward to it as much we did until we had to cancel a couple weeks in a row because of other commitments. When we told them we could hear the disappointment in their voices, and from then on we made it a priority to be together for Sunday dinner.

It did not always go smoothly. Siblings know how to push each other’s buttons and at times arguments would erupt. Sometimes they’d get a more attractive offer and ditch us at the last minute. After a few tumultuous weeks that were more bad than good, I told Mark I was sending all of them an email. I told them that their dad and I were happy to continue making Sunday dinner but that they weren’t going to be arguing at the table any more, that if they couldn’t make it they should let me know before noon so I could plan accordingly, that phones were not allowed at the table until after we were done eating, and that they should pitch in to clean up the kitchen. When I read the email to Mark he said, “You’re going to piss them off and they won’t come any more.” I said that I was reminding them how to act around our dinner table because they’d forgotten. Things were much better after that, and like clockwork, we had dinner together every Sunday.

On the last Sunday we were all together, Mark and I needed to get out of the house and away from the emotions of that weekend, and so we made dinner and took it to our daughter’s house. My son-in-law was at one end of the table, Mark at the other. Our son told a hilarious story that had us all laughing, and I remember looking at Mark, seeing him smile and believing that he was going to be okay. I never thought that it would be the last time he would be with us for dinner.

When Mark’s funeral was over and we’d gotten back from a family wedding in Colorado, my daughter asked me about Sunday dinners. “It’s okay if you don’t want to do them any more, Mom,” she said, “we’d all understand.” “Dad loved them,” I said, “he loved having all of you here, he loved watching you together, and I love having you here. Our Sunday dinners will go on.” They started a few weeks later and they were painful for all of us in so many ways, but none more than Mark’s empty seat at the table.

In the early months of counseling, my therapist repeatedly told me that the grip of grief will loosen its hold on me. When and how she could not say, but she promised me it would happen, and there has never been a promise I have counted on more in my life than that one. I daily doubted her words, but lately it doesn’t feel like I’m wearing a straight jacket, it feels like I can breathe, that I am not daily flattened and exhausted by the what ifs.

Sunday dinners are on hiatus while we all are home bound, but will start again when life gets back to normal. On our best Sundays, our Mallie Bee will be with us from California, I will plan and grocery shop and try something new, and then pour myself a glass of wine before the kids and grandkids come through the door.

We’ll catch up on work and current events and tell each other funny stories. Mabel will be bribed into eating, Walter will throw most of his food on the floor, and the tender rhythm of life will go on as it always does.