For Better or Worse

*This story contains references to pedophilia.

As a society, we collectively share this proverbial joke of a creepy-old-uncle who got divorced and married someone less than half his age. The thing about proverbs is that they’re so borderline mythological you don’t think they could actually happen, least of all to you. You don’t even have a creepy-old-uncle.

Then the next thing you know, your dad is calling to tell you your aunt and uncle are separated a month after you were all riding bikes on the beach like one big happy family. Then at Thanksgiving, people are yelling at each other because they’re for sure getting divorced, while you sit on the couch pretending to read. Then you hear that your uncle has a new girlfriend and she’ll be coming to the family campout, but you can’t make it so it’s whatever. Then you see pictures online from the family campout and think, “Wow, is that Uncle Jeff’s girlfriend? She looks kinda young… but also, she’s sort of ethnically ambiguous, so maybe she just looks young but isn’t actually that young. Also, it’s kinda hard to tell from unfocused pictures on Facebook. Also, it’s probably none of my business… She’s probably not that young.”

But she is.

You don’t think about it or hear about it again until you’re heading to Thanksgiving one pandemic later. You and your wife are catching up on who’s-who in Family Bingo and you remember, “Oh yeah, Jeff’s girlfriend is going to be there… What’s her name…?” And you try to say to your wife that you think your uncle’s girlfriend might be too young in a way that doesn’t imply he’s a pedophile. Then she says, “Oh yeah! No… she is. Andy told me she’s twenty-three.”

“Twenty-three?!” you say, swerving back into your lane after almost putting the car in a ditch. Your brain lane-corrects almost as quickly, as you think, “I mean I guess she’s an adult, I guess they’re both adults, I mean she must know what she’s doing, right? Right? Right?” There’s only so many times you and your wife can exchange doubtful, shruggy looks before you realize this is going to be one heck of a Thanksgiving.

The next thing you know, you’re sweating up a blazer on a hot patio in August around place settings for your uncle’s backyard wedding. If it was the front yard, the neighbors might be tempted to call CPS. “That’s a bit harsh,” you think, shaking the damp out of your khakis. A few years have gone by, so your soon-to-be-aunt is going on twenty-six now. Needless to say, Uncle Jeff is also three years older. Let’s just say he’s not forty.

Your dad just so happens to be a pastor and he just so happens to be officiating his brother’s wedding, perhaps because their local clergy was unavailable. So, with the family and liturgical responsibilities compounding, and your dad being your ride, you’re there from start to finish. For better or worse.

Besides a brief moment of collective, internal, “Um…” when the bride was taking a while to come out of the house at the beginning of the ceremony, things go off without a hitch. Boom, they get married and they kiss and you casually look at the clouds in the sky and think, “What is consent anyways?”

You tip-toe your way through the buffet line, making small-talk about the food choices which is all more forced and stifled than the peace talks at Versailles—the saving grace of the day is the quality of the chicken parmesan. Finally, you’re seated around your table with your aunt (the biological one, not the new one—the one that’s fifty, not the one that’s twenty-six) and a few other relatives. A few tables away there’s a smattering of people you don’t recognize but assume are here for your new aunt. It’s not Capulets and Montagues, but… no one is really mixing it up on the dance floor. Except for your dad who is making his rounds and chatting with people, perhaps out of pastoral obligation, but it could be because he’s a nice and sociable guy. “Is he getting paid for this?” you think, attempting to stab a cherry tomato on your plate.

You’re not one for small-talk, though food isn’t the worst topic if the small-talk has to happen. Of course, you were prepared for the buffet-que-queries, you expected them. What you weren’t prepared for was the quiet, shared realization amongst your relatives around the table that your options are: a) to quietly eat dinner, each with their eyes on their own cheesy-chicken, or b) to continue making small talk about the quality of said cheesy-chicken, and the varieties of gluten-options available to go along with the chicken.

Now, you’ve been around a while. You know your family. They’re an expressive bunch. You’re not the Adams, or the Bradys, or the Kardashians, but you all know how to say what you mean. Heck, a few Thanksgivings ago there was yelling and screaming. Today however, as the hot sun slowly sets behind the house you used to play with your cousins in, everyone is quiet. You’re surprised when you realize that you don’t actually feel awkward. So, what is this feeling, as people pick at topics of conversation like the last few capers left on their plate? Has everyone just resolved themselves to the new world order?

Looking at the clouds again, you reflect that there was indeed a point during the ceremony when your dad said, “Should anyone present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

And nobody said anything.

This must be what holding peace feels like. A sort of quiet resolve to accept that life is messy, and maybe your uncle hasn’t made bad choices, just choices. And maybe people are weird. And yeah, occasionally, you’re at a family picnic and you look at your wife with that frown that says, “This is fucking awkward.” But mostly, you just hold your peace. After all, who wouldn’t want an elephant at every family gathering? That’s dope as hell.