I’ll take a cup of silence

I served coffee and Greek yogurt to a hungry guest this morning.
Her comment was, “Wow, you’re acting like a wife.”

Without thinking, I defended myself.
“Oh, I’ve always been like this,” I said, and immediately cringed after hearing it come out of my mouth.

We were playing tug on perception, she and I.
She’s from my husband’s side of the family, doesn’t know me very well, but knows his family deeply and not in the kindest light.
So even when I share a small story about my in-laws, I can feel her pity before she says a word.
The eyes soften. The tone changes.
As if she’s already decided who I am and how I must feel.

When I mentioned I wanted to lose some weight, she assumed it must be because of something my in-laws said.
It wasn’t.
She told me I was perfect the way I am, that I didn’t need to lose any weight.
And while it sounded kind, it still felt off.
Not because she was wrong, but because she never stopped to ask why.
People like that don’t actually see you. They are so sure of their version of your life that they become blind to the one unfolding right in front of them.
She already had her version of me, someone reacting to other people’s standards instead of defining her own.
It’s strange how easily kindness can miss the point when it starts from assumption instead of understanding.

It’s exhausting, having to keep clarifying who you are.
Why can’t people just spend time with you, observe, and let their understanding form from their own experience?
Why can’t conversation feel like discovery instead of defense?

Later that evening, sitting at the Château with a martini, I realized how rare it is to be around people who don’t rush to define you.
The ones who can sit in silence and still understand.
Maybe that’s why I like quiet.
Because silence doesn’t assume.
It just listens.