Beneath the Surface of Sunday Dinners: My Life as Emily Parker

“Emily, could you help Mom with the potatoes?”

Josh’s voice floated from the living room, but it landed like a stone in my stomach. The kitchen was already thick with the smell of gravy and the sound of his mother’s sighs—an orchestra of reminders that I was in someone else’s home, expected to play a part I never auditioned for. I gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white, and forced a smile as Mrs. Parker handed me the peeler.

“You peel them lengthwise, dear. Not that way,” she said, her lips barely moving. Her eyes flicked from my hands to my face, searching for a reaction. I wanted to tell her that my mother peeled potatoes differently, that my family’s Thanksgiving was full of laughter and stories, not whispered corrections and silent judgments. But I just nodded and kept peeling.

It was our second Thanksgiving as husband and wife. Josh and I had driven all the way from our little apartment in downtown Indianapolis to his family’s house on the quiet edge of Carmel. For days, he’d been excited. “It’ll be good for you to spend time with my folks,” he’d said, squeezing my hand as we packed. “They’re family now.”

Family. The word twisted in my mind. To Josh, it meant warmth and belonging. To me, it felt like walking into a courtroom where I was always on trial.

The first time I visited, I’d tried so hard to fit in. I brought homemade cookies, offered to help, laughed at his brother Matt’s bad jokes. But by dessert, I found myself alone at the sink, scrubbing dishes while the rest of them watched football in the next room. When I finally sat down, I caught Josh’s father watching me over the rim of his beer. “You’ve got yourself a good one, son. She knows her place.”

The words stung, but Josh just smiled, oblivious. I told myself it was just one comment, just one awkward moment. But every visit was the same. I became the unofficial kitchen help, the one who ran after his nieces, the one who listened politely to endless stories about family friends I’d never met. No one ever asked about my job at the library, or my plans for grad school. I was invisible until something needed doing.

This year, I swore it would be different. I rehearsed what I’d say if someone handed me a dish towel or a peeler. I’d tell them I wanted to watch the game with the others, or maybe just go for a walk. But when Josh looked at me with those expectant eyes, I caved. Again.

After dinner, as I loaded plates into the dishwasher, Josh’s sister, Michelle, sidled up beside me. “You know, Mom worries you don’t like coming here.”

I stiffened. “It’s just a lot sometimes.”

She shrugged. “It’s tradition. We all pitch in. Besides, you don’t have kids yet. You have the time.”

Her words clung to me like static. The implication was clear: until I produced a grandchild or two, my worth would be measured in peeled potatoes and scrubbed pans.

That night, I lay awake in Josh’s old bedroom, listening to the creaks of the house and the distant sound of his parents arguing about something in the kitchen. I rolled over, facing Josh in the darkness.

“Do you ever notice how your mom treats me?” I whispered.

He reached for my hand. “She’s just old-school. She means well.”

“Would you say that if it were Matt’s wife?”

He was silent.

I stared at the ceiling, heart pounding. I thought about my own mother, who had left my father when I was ten, refusing to be anyone’s servant. She worked two jobs so I could go to college. I wondered what she would say if she could see me, hands raw from dish soap and pride swallowed over and over.

The next morning, as sunlight crept through the faded curtains, I found Mrs. Parker in the kitchen, already at work. She didn’t look up when I entered.

“Morning,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded, not meeting my eyes. “Coffee’s on.”

I poured myself a cup and stood there, watching her. For a moment, I saw the lines on her face, the tired set of her shoulders. Was she angry at me, or was she just tired of her own role?

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

She looked up, surprised. “Of course.”

“Do you ever wish things were different? That you didn’t have to do all this?”

She hesitated, then set down a mixing bowl. “When I was your age, I thought I’d be a teacher. But then I married your father-in-law. He liked things a certain way.”

I swallowed. “I want to help, but I also want to be part of the family. Not just the help.”

She looked at me for a long moment. Then, quietly, “I know.”

Josh found me on the porch an hour later, shivering in the November cold. He wrapped his arms around me.

“We should go home,” I said, my voice trembling.

He nodded. “I didn’t realize how much this was hurting you.”

Driving back to Indianapolis, the fields blurring past, I wondered what family really meant. Was it duty? Sacrifice? Or was it the freedom to be yourself, to be seen and heard and loved without having to earn it dish by dish?

Back in our apartment, I watched Josh unpack. I thought about all the women who’d stood in kitchens, biting their tongues, pretending. I promised myself I’d never do it again.

I turned to Josh and said, “Next Thanksgiving, let’s make our own traditions.”

He smiled, but I saw the uncertainty in his eyes. Maybe change wouldn’t come easily. But I owed it to myself to try.

Sometimes I wonder—how many of us are living lives we never chose, repeating patterns we never questioned? And what would happen if, just once, we said no?