Racing with the Dogs

My parents never fought, my first husband pronounced with chest swelling pride, Never even raised their voices at one another.

I considered this for a moment, weighing his natural tendency to exaggerate and shape the truth against what I knew of his parents' marriage. That, I said carefully, is not normal. He glared at me through narrowed and suddenly suspicious eyes, then thought better of it and shrugged, intentionally deciding not to pursue what might end up to be a minefield.

We were, truth be told, an unlikely match. He was a child of wealth and privilege, maids and private schools and grand expectations, the only boychild to carry on his family name. I was a child of alcoholism and conflict, angry and withdrawn. Rebellion had brought us together and rebellion would later pull us apart but for a time we had found common ground - I was comfortable and secure in his shadow and the security of his name, sheltered and kept safe by his outgoing nature and celebrated family. He had found a pliable, presentable partner whom he could dress up and manage with minimum effort. We didn't get in each other's way and were relatively content, finding it easy to overlook each other's flaws, easy to push aside the restlessness and complacency that had overtaken us.
Certain families, however, especially the kind who never raise their voices at each other, tend to build traps for their children and themselves. The perfection he perceived in his parents' marriage eventually helped bring about multiple marriages for the children, searches for approval that were destined to fail, unvoiced resentments and battles for control. Independence was won and lost, traded, won and lost again. The fight never really ended, even after the death of both parents, it was a legacy that lived on. All three children are still searching, still trying to prove themselves, still trying to reconcile with the demands of perfection.

These parents who never fought, never raised their voices, ruled with iron hands in kid gloves, sweet words and gentle smiles. Their children chased after the rewards they offered like greyhounds pursuing an always out of reach rabbit, running in circles and ending up empty handed and empty hearted but always ready and willing to race the next day.