The other day, I was venting to my husband about my parents not seeing eye to eye with me about how to raise kids. After I’m done, he tells me he totally gets it.
Then he mentions how he had to confront his mom recently about something she said. He goes on about how much effort it took to voice his frustrations, how much patience he needed to ensure she understood, and why that’s one of the reasons he doesn’t visit them as often as they want.
I listen to the rest of what he says, but I’m stuck on the first part of his story so I ask him, “What did she say that ticked you off?”
He says, “Oh, nothing.”
I wanted to know what my mother-in-law said so I dig deeper, “What was it about?”
He rolls his eyes, “It doesn’t matter what it is. I’m merely sharing with you the story as a way to relate to your frustrations with your parents.”
I’m miffed now and my thoughts start to wander down paranoia road. I interrogate him, “Was it about me?”
He shakes his head. Then he gives a nervous chuckle.
I continue, “Was it about the kids?”
After a moment of hesitation, he nods and says, “Yeah, the kids.”
I’m getting riled up and I snap, “What about the kids? How they’re not getting along? How they haven’t had a lot of social interactions with other kids because of the pandemic? Did she make assumptions about how they’ll turn out from all this?”
He gets up from the table and walks to the kitchen.
His tone is firm, “I’m not saying anything. You’re not gonna like it. It’s better you don’t know.”
Now I’m really curious. He leaves the kitchen and goes upstairs to the bedroom. I want to follow him, pestering him with more questions, trying anything to get him to crack. But instead, I stay seated on the couch in the living room with an internal battle inside my head.
I don’t like it when others talk about my kids behind my back.
It brings out the mama bear in me, fiercely protecting and defending my children. I wanted to know what my mother-in-law said about them. I don’t have many things in common with her. We’re not close.
Naturally, I wanted my husband to dish.
But then I started to wonder: What was I going to get out of this knowledge?
Would this extinguish all possible sparks in the smoldering ashes of our tepid relationship?
Am I drawn to the drama? Did I want to know the information as a way to validate my apathy for her? To add to the pile of stories about why we aren’t friends?
How does knowing what she said affect my day? Will I get triggered?
What am I going to do with this piece of information? Does it help me? How will it affect how I feel about her? About my husband? About my marriage?
Then I started thinking that maybe my husband could tell my sister what was said and she could determine whether it should be shared with me.
My gut was telling me to stay away.
My mind was telling me it’s not worth it to know. My heart was wary about the possibility of getting hurt.
As the day ended, my husband was still tight-lipped. The longer I had to think through this, the less I wanted to know. I realized he was giving me a gift of ignorance. With some things, it’s better not to know as a way to maintain peace within ourselves. I slept soundly that night.
