Mercy For Me, Justice for You

Type A is the dominant gene in my family—one only a handful of relatives managed to dodge.

Ask any of us how to load a dishwasher, the best brand of pasta, or the proper way to clean something, and you won’t get an opinion—just the facts!

When my sister flew in from Manhattan, a simple cup of coffee with Dad became proof of this family trait.

Filling coffee cups nearly to the brim, our father asked, “Do you want milk?”

“Yes, please,” I said.

“No thanks, I’ll drink it black,” my sister answered.

Sliding two mugs across the granite island, he placed them in front of the counter stools where my sister and I sat. Handing me the milk container, he watched through squinted eyes.

As I poured, Dad nervously reached out. “Uh… that’s good,” he said.

Retracting my arm, eyebrows raised, I asked, “Dad, are you actually telling me how much milk I can have in my coffee?”

“Well,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

“How do you know how much milk I like?” I said, laughing in disbelief—priding myself for never being a micromanager of someone else’s coffee.

Though our father breaks chops like it’s a contact sport, this time he stood on the sidelines, smiling as my sister and I broke his, nearly doubled over reenacting the exchange.

I milked the coffee incident for everything it was worth, capitalizing on any opportunity to remind my father of his need to control and be right.

That lasted right up until dinner one evening, when my husband was getting ready for a night of cards with my father and his friends. He mentioned wanting a quick bite before leaving, since the weekly game—scheduled for 7:00 to 10:00 p.m.—starts promptly at five minutes to seven.

Always the dutiful wife, right on cue, I asked, “Would you like me to make you a salad?”

“Actually, that would be great. Thank you.”

I crafted the perfect Caesar salad, complete with organic croutons, shavings of Parmesan cheese, and fresh dressing, which I was drizzling into the large bowl of greens just as my husband walked up behind me, peering over my shoulder.

“I’d like a little more dressing, please,” he said.

I’m pretty sure I rolled my eyes.

“Are you sure?” I asked, hoping he’d reconsider.

“Yes,” he replied confidently.

As he stood there, unwavering, he gave me a little nod—as if to say, “Go ahead, just put the dressing on the salad. You can do it.”

Conceding without another word, I inhaled, shrugged my shoulders, and made a quick swirl around the bowl, hoping to prevent too much from drenching the salad. Then I looked up at him for approval.

“A little more, please,” he said.

If one more drop of dressing hit that romaine, it was going to be ruined. The lettuce would be a soggy, limp mess. Unable to watch the massacre, I handed him the dressing.

“I don’t like a salad that’s overdressed,” I said, stepping back.

“I know you don’t,” he said, turning around and looking at me deadpan while pouring more on his salad.

It wasn’t the first time someone had called out my controlling ways. In my two previous marriages, my need to control earned me a few nicknames—two of the most memorable being “Little Napoleon” and “Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong.”

As the events of the previous weeks came flooding back, I lowered my head, slowly shaking it from side to side, having experienced the stinging yet comical truth.

“Just call me Jimmy. And when you see my father tonight, let him know the apple didn’t fall far from the tree,” I said with a laugh.

As a woman in recovery, “If you spot it, you got it” reminds me that noticing a trait in someone else means I carry it too. While I may not concern myself with how much cream someone puts in their coffee, I’ll make no qualms about telling them how much dressing they can have on their salad.

My need to control outcomes has always stemmed from fear—fear of not getting what I want or losing what I have.

Recently, when I made breakfast for the two of us, I asked my husband if he’d like some honey over his yogurt and fresh fruit.

Waiting for his response, it hit me—breakfast was our salad-dressing do-over.

“Do you want a lot on here?” I asked, already pouring.

While I still have opinions about how things should be done, recovery has taught me to leave space—for others to be themselves, for me to see myself in them, and to always leave a little room to be wrong.