Dear Valentina [The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel]

☆ Chapter Twenty-Three: Irish Not Welcomed

"In the Catskills, nostalgia runs backward." 
― Kevin Haworth, Famous Drownings in
Literary Essay: Essays on
 21st Century Jewishness

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.      IRISH NOT WELCOMED

☆

1955.

      Valerie knew when she wasn't wanted.

      Growing up in a household with a step-mother who didn't shy away from expressing her distaste heightened her sensitivities to apathy or upfront animosity. But this ― this was something different, beyond the fact that she chose this. She chose to marry Mark and therefore, his parents in some strange way. She had never believed the whole "you marry the family" slogan, chalking it up to sentimental WASP bullshit, but she had failed to consider the fact that not all families were like hers. Most families didn't, or at least chose not to, distance themselves. Most families, she imagined, welcomed the members who joined through marriage with open arms.

      Much to her bad luck, Mark came from a family who valued quality time, and weekly dinners, and shared vacations, and basically the exact opposite of her upbringing. So when they officially became a couple, and eventually got married (after many rejected and relentless proposals), Valerie knew she would have to adapt in small ways to the attitudes of his family, just as he did with hers. She had come to learn that relationships require compromise and if she wanted this to work (and she desperately, desperately did), she would have to suffer spending time with her new in-laws.

      Still...that fact didn't make any of this less difficult.

      They eloped months ago and had an early honeymoon in Pennsylvania, but the wedding happened less than two weeks ago. Nothing had changed between them since the Justice of the Peace declared them lawfully wedded or when the priest blessed their marriage with good graces. They were just as committed to one another as before, vows or no vows, just as happy. Undoubtedly, Valerie felt a little satisfaction at being right that marriage really was overrated, just a piece of paper that acted as a contract, but she would be lying if she said that a flutter of joy didn't erupt waves across her belly every time she looked down at her ring, or caught a glance at the silver band on Mark's hand.