Moving to Italy: In-laws

That sounds really good doesn’t it? Except I left a lot out. I wasn’t always as magnanimous as it seems. George was used to his parents, but he agreed that we needed our own space. While we separated ourselves upstairs, we were still indebted to them for providing us with a place to live. Part of this debt was worked off in manual labor. George hacked at weeds, chopped and hauled firewood, painted doors and walls, and did whatever else his parents asked. One side of me knew this was only fair. They were in their sixties, and his father’s physical activity was limited by arthritis. His mother was healthy, but some chores, like chopping wood, were too much for her. It was natural that they should look to their only child for help. 

Another side of me gradually began to resent their constant demands on George’s time. I came to dread Marino’s voice as it echoed up the stairwell in increasing volume, “Giorgio.  Giorgio!  GIORGIO!”  No matter what we were doing, his parents expected George to drop everything to come to their aid. And I resented it. Boy did I resent it! 

Poor George was caught between their demands downstairs and me nattering at him upstairs, “Why do you have to go now? Can’t they wait?” to “How about you paint our rooms first and their rooms second?” “Why are they more important than us?” (Because they owned the house, Silly, I tell me younger self.) They acted as if George had never left home. And in a way, he hadn’t.

This was made much worse when George realized while painting their rooms that everything upstairs echoed off the high ceilings and bounced downstairs in perfect clarity. Oh boy! How much of my whining had they heard? 

And what about our lovemaking! Yikes!