The Reason for the Season
By Adolphine Umukobwa
The lead up to Christmas moves fast and slow, each moment filled with dread. The prodigal father has returned, so we will be “celebrating” in the house I grew up in. I make my way to my hometown, texting my sisters as we put on our armor and commit to braving this reunion as a united front. I told my mom about my Christmas reunion anxieties, and she told me to think positively. She says my dread is what will make things go badly.
“I am glad you are all home, and we have time to talk,” my father says. I look around the house as he starts the speech. If you tune out the beginning of a speech, you can play guess the topic when you tune back in. I know today’s topic already, unfortunately.
The house is still the same, for worse. Bright and airy yellowish cream walls covered with random art and cheesy quotes from TJ Maxx. There are things everywhere. Statues, plants, bowls, glass jars filled with rocks, end tables where end tables shouldn’t go, too big or too small coffee tables and couches. The house that was once palatial now suffocates me.
It's been months since I last saw my father (something that won’t be addressed). Months since we last spoke because I don’t like who I become when I’m in his presence.
Instead of apologizing for abandoning us, the man who is barely there for his wife and three daughters starts pontificating about our lack of husbands. He doesn’t even care to ask how we have been. Making sure we are still employed and getting promoted is as close as he gets to a check-in. He starts the conversation somewhere in the middle, as if he has been talking about this for some time now. I guess in a way he has. “I am proud of your accomplishments, but you are not doing everything that I asked. Where are your husbands and kids?! He shouts at the three of us. “I should be a grandfather by now.” My jaw clenches and I notice my sister squirm in her seat. “You have places to live and you’ve worked hard but you do cannot have a true home and purpose without a husband and child.”
I breathe in for four and hold for four.
Trying to remain steady as he scolds us.
“What is it that is stopping you all from finding a husband?” No one says anything. I’ve tried to answer this question many times before, but I guess my response is never right. Or there isn’t a right response.
My westernised self thought the question an opportunity to talk about the way trauma, identity issues, and other things that come with being an immigrant tie to relationship issues. It was not. That opportunity doesn’t exist here.
I breathe out for four and hold for four a few more times until my breath steadies.
As he continues, I focus on the lit Christmas tree in the living room that is looking far too festive to be in this house. Alexa is playing a Christmas playlist and I’m trying my best to stay in the room and not disappear into the safety of my mind.
I can barely taste my food at dinner as he tells us to just pick one. We don’t need to be head over heels or that sure. People never are. We just need to be around 40-50% sure. Good family, money, Christian. That’s enough for a husband. I ask for the source of this information and am told it is God’s wisdom that was bestowed directly upon my father who is just a messenger. Do I dare to go against God’s word? I am ignored when I ask why God doesn’t talk to me about this directly.
My mother says nothing, and I honestly never know her position on this matter. She is caught somewhere between the liberation of her daughters and sticking with an identity that has helped her survive.
He is still going on and on because we need to understand how serious this is. Unwed women in their 30s with aging uteruses and dwindling energy levels. Don’t we want to be able to play with our kids?
When we can take no more, we tell him that we are perfectly fine with not meeting his expectations and ending the family line. He suggests leaving our marriages and future children to God and directs us to ask God for clarity and direction through prayer. My parents’ God always picks their side.
I offer a post-discussion prayer once he has finished speaking. Everyone looks alarmed. I start by thanking God for the family reunion, “amen!” and ask for family healing. Less enthusiastic “amens.” I ask God for clarity and wisdom on our marriages and children, “yes Lord!” I appeal to God. If it is His will that we should marry, please can we end up with safe people who love us better than what we have seen and experienced at home? Silence. I end the prayer with a lone “amen” as my father stands to tell me to get out of the house. I happily oblige, excusing myself from the table. I grab my things and go, relieved.
Marriage is not the reason for the season.
Adolphine Umukobwa is a Rwandese-American writer based in NYC. She works in non-profit operations by day and creates stories in her mind the remainder of the time. Umukobwa is growing her writing skills while creating pieces that explore questionable traditions. She hopes her writing inspires provocative and important discourse on mental health issues, family dynamics, and the role of women in society.
- All rights to this story remain with the author. Please do not repost or reproduce this material without permission.
Did you enjoy this story? Drop a comment below!
