When my grandmother Quen was on her deathbed in her 60s, she called the whole family into her room, including my mom, who held me, then a 6-month-old baby, in her arms. I was flushed and fat-cheeked opposite Quen, whose face was gray and sunken from the ravages of ovarian cancer. “You were the love of my life,” Quen said, looking at her husband of over four decades, “and I should have left you the day I married you.”
She had tried to leave once. In high school, my mom came home one day to find her mom packing her bags, but my grandfather John got Quen to stay by telling her that he would die first and then she would be free. This was before no-fault divorce was legalized in her home state of Indiana and across the country, which allowed people to end their marriages without having to prove wrongdoing.
As everyone looked on, Quen continued: “You promised me a second chance. You promised me a better life, a happy life.” I was far too little to remember the speech, but my mom told me about it often. John liked to dress Quen in furs and fine jewelry to show off his business success; she lived a life of financial comfort but also silent misery. My mom called it a “deal with the devil.”
It was a while before I heard about my mom’s own deal with the devil.
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