No Big Deal

A midnight slog on the back of my mother-in-law’s bicycle

Photo by Tsuyoshi Kozu on Unsplash

It’s nearly midnight. I’m standing in a dim pool of light from the only lamp on the platform.

There isn’t a soul around — the tiny station building is locked up tight, its windows hollow and black. My phone is practically dead, and seven kilometers of road lie between a warm bed and me. Uber and Bolt haven’t made it out this far yet, and the buses stopped running hours ago. I could walk, sure. Alone at night, with this massive backpack. Probably not a great idea.

Where the hell is he? Something must’ve happened.

I try my husband’s number again, with no luck. A stinging irritation gives way to a hollow sort of despair — the whole situation is just absurd. I’m in my hometown, yet there’s no one to pick me up. My husband is nowhere to be found, and none of my friends here have a car.

I could wake up Grandpa; he doesn’t even know I’m coming today, but he’d be here in minutes if I called. The catch is, he’d insist I stay the night because he’s missed me, and we haven’t seen each other in forever… and I’m just not in the mood to deal with his third wife.

For a few minutes, I actually consider ditching my backpack at the station — just grabbing my laptop and hoofing it. Maybe if I hide the rest of it in the tall grass somewhere, nobody will bother with my jeans and socks before morning. But the thought of seven kilometers down unlit, empty streets with a laptop tucked under my arm kills that plan pretty quickly.

He wouldn’t just leave me here in the middle of the night, would he? Something has to be wrong.

By the time I dial my mother-in-law, I’ve worked myself up into a state of shaking and near-tears. In a trembling voice, I tell her something terrible must have happened to her son — he was supposed to meet me at the train, but he never showed. “Should we call the police?”

“I’m coming for you,” she says. Her voice is still raspy from sleep, but perfectly steady —and completely flat. I was expecting panic, tears, screaming, a million frantic questions. Instead, she just drops that one sentence and hangs up. Fine. She’s coming.

The only thing is — how? She doesn’t even drive.

Half an hour later, a rhythmic creaking drifts out of the dark, and my mother-in-law wobbles into view on a bicycle. The shock jolts a hiccup out of me, but a wave of relief follows. At least the seven-kilometer trudge won’t be a solo trip, and the backpack can hang right over the handlebars.

“Get on,” she says without so much as a ‘hello,’ pointing to the rack over the back wheel. My jaw drops. The last time I rode like this was with my uncle, and I wasn’t even in school yet.

“Are you sure?” I ask cautiously. “My backpack is really heavy…”

She just waits in silence. With a sigh, I clumsily hoist myself onto the hard metal rack, trying to keep my legs pulled up and far away from the spokes. My thigh muscles start to ache the second I sit down. My back is already screaming under the weight of that damn backpack. This is going to be quite the ride.

The mother-in-law digs into the pedals, stubbornly pushing forward. I can feel how much she’s struggling and offer to stop for a quick breather where the light is better, but she refuses. She has to be up for work in three hours.

The streets are dead silent — not even a dog barking. She is quiet too, except for her heavy, strained breathing. The anxiety starts crawling back in: What happened to my husband? Where is he? Did his mother even understand a word of what I told her?

It’s nearly two in the morning by the time I finally make it home. I hurl that dead weight against the fence and collapse into the grass like a sack of potatoes; my legs are so stiff I can’t even stand. As the numbness fades, it feels like a swarm of invisible, biting ants is attacking my muscles. I’m doubling over in pain, whimpering like a sick puppy. A stray blade of wet grass tickles my nose.

Meanwhile, the mother-in-law stows the bike in the garage and disappears. Somehow, I crawl my way to the porch. Shaking and straining like my husband’s ancient great-grandmother, I manage the three steps up to the brightly lit veranda. Around the ceiling light, gnats are swarming in a frantic, feverish dance. There on the shoe rack — my husband’s sneakers. On the coat hook — his jacket.

What the hell?

By the time I’ve hobbled from the gate to the house, the mother-in-law has already made me tea and buttered two thick slabs of bread, finishing them off with a heavy dusting of sugar. With a grateful sigh, I tear into the food like a starving hawk. She just sits there across from me, watching in silence — not eating, not drinking. The skin around her eyes is a pale, bruised brown from years of never getting enough sleep.

It’s only after I’ve cleared my plate that I remember my husband again.

“So — do you actually know where he is? Where’s he been? Why didn’t he come get me?”

“He’s in the bedroom, sleeping,” she says dryly. “Do you want me to make up a separate bed for you?”

Again: what the hell?

Turns out, an old classmate had dropped by. They were “having a talk” — their family term for a vodka session— and afterward, my husband had every intention of driving to the station to get me. (Behind the wheel? In his talkative state?)

The guest left, and he just… drifted off. The mother-in-law hadn’t noticed; she’d gone to bed even earlier since she has to be up for work at four. She’s “very sorry” it happened.

Maybe she really is sorry, but nowhere near as much as I am. Those sugary, buttered sandwiches turn into a dry lump in my throat, and a slow, seething rage burns in my chest. And she can just talk about it so calmly? So he had a drink, so he forgot to pick up his wife from the station… no big deal, right?

I want to hurl my half-finished tea right at the floor. I want to howl so loud the neighbors’ dogs start wailing and the apples drop right off the trees. I want her to do something, to show even a flicker of emotion — anything but just sitting there, staring at me like some soulless doll.

But my mother-in-law does nothing, so I politely finish my tea and head to bed in silence, without even wishing her a goodnight.

The darkness in the bedroom is thick with the stifling stench of alcohol. The great black lump under the covers snores away, completely oblivious to my presence. In just a few hours, after the sun comes up, he’ll turn back into my husband — he’ll be all tears and repentance, begging for forgiveness. Because no big deal, right?

I wish she’d just left me at the station.