Doris and Eddie

The look of Cape Cod: Dennisport Village Cabins

We bought the cottage on Bayberry Lane—the one with the sparse grass and a pine branch for a swing—so that for two weeks each summer, our daughters could hunt sand crabs in tidal pools at the beach and, at sunset, wearing sweatshirts, eat hot macaroni and cheese.

Eddie and Doris lived in a weathered, gray-shingled cottage, like ours, behind us—Eddie was in his nineties and Doris, self-determined, forthright, and highly-capable, in her seventies. They had no children as she’d raised her brothers and sisters. I was impressed by her and a little scared—as with someone who is certain of how things are to be done.

One day Doris and I were out back looking at the red impatiens edging their home’s cement block foundation. The plants needed watering. It was Eddie’s job, she pointed out, so she was going to leave them—and not with any reproof of him. She respected his dignity and would not interfere.

With my husband, it was different. I supported his decisions, but there was oblivion on my part that came out when we divorced—as to who he really was, and where I didn’t respect his dignity. Doris had a grip on this—an understanding that’s taken me my years of learning.

My realization is, "We are given cameos of truth—mere moments of a few words that may, then or later, alter our course and keep us true to the highest view of one another."