Minerva

The woman who became my mother-in-law, Minerva Evangeline Cross King, was a tall, stately woman, born in Main, brought up to do her duty, to be kind and caring. Showing emotion was frowned upon. When my boyfriend introduced me to her, she said, “You aren’t the woman I would have chosen for my son, but you will be the mother of my grandchildren and we will get along.” Compared to my mother’s manipulation, this felt like a breath of fresh air.

After the wedding she asked me to call her mom. I couldn’t. We settled for Min. Unlike my relationship with my mother, which was tempestuous and adversarial, my relationship with her was cordial.

Although Min was now an administrator of a nursing home, she still had nursing credentials so when I was in labor, she stayed with me until she said it was time to go to the hospital. Once there, she took care of me during the 27 hours it took for me to give birth. In those days husbands weren’t allowed to be with their wives so she was a comfort, and more. When a nurse wanted to cut my long hair because it was so tangled, Min said no, she’d comb and braid it. Despite a variety of doctors attending to me, she remained in the delivery room, part of the team. When our son was born, she was the first person to hold him. When the baby and I came home, despite her eagerness to see her grandson, she always called ahead of time to ask if she could visit, treating me with respect and admiration. 

When my 18-month-old son suddenly became deathly ill, she used her nursing credentials to bypass bureaucracy and get him immediate care. Despite the admitting doctor and my family blaming me for his illness, she steadfastly supported me, knowing I had taken him to a family doctor that afternoon, knowing he had told me my son just had a little cold, not to be a nervous mother. During the next six months, despite my son’s recurring illnesses, unlike my family and husband, she never blamed me, continually reminding me I was doing everything I could do to keep him healthy. 

Over the years we became fond of each other, often visiting without our husbands. She was a capable woman who seemed to manage everything with seeming ease and yet, she once called to say she was in big trouble. “What’s the matter?” I asked, alarmed.

“I need to bring a chocolate cake to the annual church bazar later this afternoon. I bake pies but I’ve never been able to bake cakes. Could you possibly bake a chocolate cake for me to take to the church? I need it in a few hours.”

My first response was to laugh. How was it she could bake two or three pies before breakfast faster than I could prepare the ingredients, yet not be able bake a cake? Of course I told her I would. When I met her at the door with the cake, her relief was palpable. Thereafter, she baked pies for me. I baked cakes for her. 

When I learned she was in the hospital with serious heart problems, something I didn’t know she’d had, I rushed to the hospital with no thought except to see her. When I arrived, and saw a lonely glass with a few daffodils in her otherwise bare hospital room, I remembered her saying, “Don’t send flowers when I’m dead, give them to me when I’m alive.”  I held her hand for a moment and told her I was sorry I hadn’t thought to bring flowers. As always, she said what she thought. “Send them to me when I’m home.” I tried to hug her. She flinched. 

During the time I knew her there were many times when I wanted to tell her how much I cared about her but never found a way to do it. She was a woman who didn’t speak about her feelings, nor did she encourage anyone to talk about their feelings with her.

How do you show love?

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july 2o25 stories