Prologue - A Sofa Tale of Family and Friends

The Psychology of a Family Furniture without the Family

I am lying down on a lumpy old sofa. Mother had wanted to buy a new one for quite some time but there was always something more important. I still remember the day we got it new, and today we would all agree, those were the better days.

Usually Father would say good-bye in the car, wait until Mother opened the door drive off and be done with it, but this time I had my key and he wanted to see the new sofa or more likely Mother sitting on the new sofa. His mood was foreshadowing a later conversation, we would have in the very same silver Honda Accord that drove me home that night: “Your mother has always been too independent, she would buy a sofa one day in blue or green or even pink without asking me for my opinion on it”.

This particular sofa in question was a mixture of warm earthy tones that matched the honey coloured wooden floors and the light beige curtains in kitchen and living room. I guess he was disappointed that the it fit into her old living room perfectly. Like her new hair cut, it was a symbol for a new beginning without him.

Now, I don’t know how many years later, the sofa is a relic, not even the furniture store, that sold it, exists anymore, bankruptcy. Father does not talk to me other than on my birthday and on Christmas and oddly enough Mother sees more of him than I do. Even after living separately for most of my life, they still manage to be relatively cordial with each other. Unlike most separated couples, they do not ignore or speak ill of each other, at least not in each other’s company. Mostly they prefer not to speak. I am the only point of overlap and this particular topic is quite quickly exhausted. Than again, there is always the weather. Sometimes he would just drop by to bring her one thing or the other, he takes off his jacket and sits down on the sofa. Like they old married couple, they never would be, lounging on the lumpy old sofa, that once meant so much, they watch TV, because it’s easier than yet another senseless monosyllabic conversation, pretending this is just another evening at home, hers not his. He insists on keeping her company because he undoubtedly is the better conversationalist than her TV could ever be. She bares it, and for him there is still this tiny flame called hope, that one day, he will return to his rightful place on the this sofa.

Although they are practically strangers by now, they have been apart for longer than they have been together, let alone happy together, Father clings desperately to the idea of Mother as his perfect mate. “I made my choice and now I have to stick to it”, he explained. Maybe his love for her is an obligation, a responsibility took on more or less freely. “I could have gone to Argentina and not given a damn about you”, was his rather acidic answer. And yes, Father has a penchant for melodramatic hyperbole. Maybe it’s habit, a security blanket, that protects you against the icy fingers of a harsh reality gripping your heart. People don’t like change. Mother hurt him by her rejection but he tells himself, just because she doesn’t love me anymore, I don’t have to give up on my love for her, come what may, I chose to love her, I chose her.

He may have complained, he never had a place in her life but he did his damnest to worm his way back in, one way or another.