Later that night, I briefly glanced at my husband and found myself not wanting to look into the eyes I love. I hated this divide. I wanted to touch his forearms and feel our connection, but I also felt an urge to punish him and deny him my touch.
“I am sorry about the holidays, but I cannot bite my tongue like I did with Hillary,” I told him. “I don’t want to disrespect your parents or your brother and his family in their home, or our home, so it’s best this way. No scenes. You can go see them. Seriously — I will not be in a room of 15 people who voted for Trump.”
He mentioned our son and his girlfriend, who are coming home for Christmas.
“Will they feel bad?” he asked.
Bad? I think they already feel bad. Really bad, I thought. Instead, I said, “We will have our own small holiday, and it will be fine.”
Will it be fine? I have wondered that since 2016, when I saw my husband’s stubbornness. How could a Latino vote for Trump? How can any of his family members vote for him? Haven’t they believed any of Trump’s comments about immigration? Aren’t they worried about the reproductive safety of the young women and girls in our family? Aren’t they worried about all of the other nightmares that could be headed our way?